Ready, Set, Go! - Overwatch Edition
by Asynca
Summary: A collection of drabbles, prompts and speed prompts based on characters from Overwatch. Mostly trending towards femslash (Widowtracer and Pharmercy), but they could be anything, really.
1. Whoops! - Widowmaker x Tracer

Written in 26 minutes.

* * *

I'd had my sight trained on the doorway for _eternity_. I could see them with my visor—those fools were all piled in there, but none of them were coming _out_. The clock was ticking, we didn't have all day to move this load. " _Cowards_ ," I muttered.

"That's a mite hypocritical, don't you think? _You're_ not leaving cover, either." I didn't bother looking to see who'd suddenly appeared beside me; that insufferable chirpiness could only have belonged to one person. That 'one person' then spoke from the _other_ side me. "Well, I hope you _thank me_ for the free shots I'm about to give you!"

There was that _whoosh_ of air closing in on itself as Tracer vanished, and then, through my sight, I could see her zip down to the doorway. _Was she completely_ — I looked up, alarmed. _Couldn't she see?_ Couldn't she see who was in there waiting for—?

I wasn't sure what I heard first; the heavy _clank_ of a rusty chain or her _shriek_ as she was snared by it, pulled immediately _inside the doorway_ and into the nest of guns and swords and rays all waiting to blast her full of holes and into a million pieces and I could hear her _screaming inside the_ —

—then she was screaming beside me where she'd been a moment age, clutching at the wall, mouth wide open in horror. She was panting.

I was panting, too.

After a moment of gaping at each other, she wiped her brow on her forearm and laughed nervously, trying to compose herself again. "Phew! I thought I was a goner!" she confessed, clapping me on the back in a _far_ too familiar way. It took her a moment to note my expression, and— _pathetically_ —I wasn't fast enough in stifling it. She smoothed back her floppy fringe, giving me a very smug once-over. "Hey, looks like _someone else_ was worried I was a goner, too!"

At least it had been _years_ since my circulation was good enough to manage a blush. "I was," I told her dryly. "Because if _anyone_ ever gets to kill you, it's going to be _me._ "

"I'm _touched_ , really," she told me, and think blinked to the other side of me. "Except I'm not. No one can, especially not you. I'm too fast! _Bye_!" She laughed at her own joke, and then gave me a casual salute and then disappeared, leaving me to my reverie.


	2. Flesh Wound - Pharah x Mercy

Speed prompt, written in 68 minutes.

* * *

She found Pharah's body lying in a puddle in the centre of the dirtiest, darkest laneway in Kings Row, arms and robotic wings outstretched, eyes blank and empty. Blood seeped from the corners of her mouth, and a few unfired rockets spilled out of the open chest of her armour.

Mercy couldn't help herself: she gathered each of the rockets up and placed them neatly back into the sockets of Pharah's chestplate and then closed it. It was part of putting someone back together, wasn't it? Attention to detail was important.

Further down the laneway, the rest of the team were celebrating their victory: whooping, letting off rounds into the sky; here, it was silent. It was such a shame that the _real_ hero of their team couldn't celebrate.

 _Not for long_ , Mercy thought, and raised her hands to the heavens until a glow surrounded Pharah's body. The body shuddered back to life, clutching her throat and _gasping_ for air, wide-eyed and coughing like she was still trying to clear blood from her lungs.

Mercy helped her roll onto her side until she realised there was no longer any blood to cough out. "You're okay now," she repeated softly, like a mantra. "Everything's going to be alright."

Pharah eventually calmed at her voice, staring down at her hands on the muddy cobblestones. Her expression hardened when she saw the many pock-holes in her armour and realised what had happened. She looked away. "I have _failed_."

Mercy couldn't help herself: she chuckled at that. Such conviction. "On the contrary, Fareeha, you did't—"

"—I _died_ when my team most needed me. I _failed_ everyone."

" _Actually_ ," Mercy told her. "You are the reason we were victorious." Pharah didn't look at all like she believed her, so she went on to explain, "It was you shouting from the skies and showering the pavement with rockets that was the distraction the others needed to mount a coordinated attack. While the enemy were shooting at you, we killed every single last one of them."

Pharah's eyes remained averted. There was… _shame_ , there? Mercy didn't expect that; how odd. Such a mixed group of people they had become. "Come," she said, standing out of the puddle and offering a helping hand to Pharah. "Let's get you back to the infirmary and finish patching you up. We'll have you back in the skies in no time."

She had to help the fallen hero to get there there: not for any mechanical reason—the nanotechnology she had developed was much more reliable these days, she very rarely had any mishaps anymore—but because Pharah seemed weary and sore.

The others were probably all getting drunk at a local bar and recounting the moments of triumph while Mercy helped Pharah remove her suit of armour piece by piece, until she was seated on the examination table in her underclothes, skin on display.

She had _so many scars_ ; that was the first thing that Mercy noticed. None of the others had so many; one would almost need to deliberately place themselves directly in the line of fire to have suffered so much. None of the old wounds appeared to have been stitched up too well, either—if they'd even been stitched up at all, that is. Mercy was sure that if Pharah had been in _her_ care, her skin would not be so marked.

There was a fresh gash that had been under the join of her pauldrons that Mercy had the chance to mend, and while she was probing around it to make sure Pharah wasn't hiding any broken bones—soldiers were the _worst_ for concealing the extent of their injuries—she could feel the woman quietly watching her. When she glanced up to smile at her patient, though, those brown eyes darted away; to the floor, to the ceiling, even straight ahead.

She was such a private person, Mercy reflected as she placed a couple of specially formulated nano-bandages over the wound. It would be perfectly healed in no time. "There you are!" she told Pharah. "You'll be good as new overnight!"

Pharah nodded, but her shoulders slumped as Mercy lifted her hands from them. Mercy wondered if she was in pain and not being honest about it— _another_ cursed habit of soldiers—so she thought she'd just probe a little more around the gash to see if there were any particularly tender spots that would indicate muscle damage.

Pharah leant into her touch, and from her silence, Mercy could tell the wound was simply on the surface. Her patient spoke, finally. "Is that the only one?"

Mercy could clearly see it was, and Pharah could almost certainly _feel_ it was, but the insistence in her voice that Mercy should check her over held a note of quiet desperation. Mercy recognised it; patients who were rarely touched were like this: they never wanted the exam to end. All humans longed for contact, and it must have been a long time since caring hands had touched Pharah.

A healer, that struck Mercy to her heart. How lonely this fine woman must be.

She wouldn't normally indulge a patient so much, but for this one she did: she took off her gloves—"I can feel detail better without them," she fibbed—and checked every muscle, every inch of Pharah's exposed skin for fictional tears and bruises. She pretended to clean old scratches, pretended to need to probe particularly knotted muscles, until Pharah's eyes were closed and her hard expression had peacefully softened.

Mercy felt a surge of affection for her. This woman had never needed so much for someone to take care of her. "I'll protect you better next time," she promised. "I won't leave your side until I'm sure you're safe."

Pharah's eyes opened a little—staring blankly at the linoleum floor. "Thank you," she murmured. "But you should save your energy for those who most _need_ it." 'Need' didn't seem to be the right word; and the way Pharah's lips turned on it, Mercy heard 'deserve'.

What had happened to this woman, she wondered, that would make her speak in such a way about herself? "We've all done things we regret, Fareeha," she said gently, watching her patient _flinch_ at the suggestion. "I took an oath to do no harm, and yet I've murdered people. We do what we must."

"I know," Pharah said defensively, but there was pain in her voice. "But still: save your energy. I will ensure I don't need to _drain_ you again."

"Oh, please," she told Pharah with a smile, and then inadvertently found herself stroking a thumb over the tattoo on Pharah's cheek. "It's my pleasure to be of assistance to you."

Those brown eyes looked up at her for just a moment: in them, she could see _so_ much pain. The doctor in her _longed_ with every fibre of her being to ease it.

"Thank you," Pharah repeated, her lips barely moving.

Mercy had realised she'd been watching them so closely until that moment; she found that detail surprising. Or maybe not so surprising, after all; she'd always had a weakness for stoic types. "My pleasure," she said, meaning it. "Now, shall we join the others? I think everyone needs to hear about the moment you saved us all and delivered us victory!"

Pharah smile a little at that, and let Mercy help her up and back into her armour before the two of them went in search of the rest of their team to enjoy their hard-fought victory.


	3. Off Duty - Mercy x Pharah

Speed prompt, written in 51 minutes.

* * *

I double-checked the room number, spent a few seconds worrying I was intruding on my surly teammate, and reminded myself that I was _thirty-seven_ , for crying out loud, and if I couldn't take risks now, when did I plan to take them? Reaching out, I knocked on the motel door.

It wasn't as if I expected Pharah to answer the door in her full rocket suit, but even though I'd prepared myself for 'different', I hadn't prepared myself for _how_ different. The woman who answered looked almost unrecognisable. She had the same pretty face and stoic express that I remembered—and importantly, the same Eye of Horus tattoo—but that was where the similarities ended. 'Fareeha' looked so different than 'Pharah'. Different, and much younger in her cargos and loose sweatshirt.

I found my eyes straying down her body; I _did_ recognise those muscles, though.

She was also looking up and down mine. "I'm underdressed," she said shortly, and then looked worried. That insecurity, I also recognised.

God, did _everything_ this woman did need to be so damn endearing? We were in the middle of _nowhere_ on Route 66, it hardly mattered what anyone wore! I couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, don't mind me," I told her about my cream-coloured dress and heels. "I spend half the year in makeshift hospitals in the middle of nowhere, I'll take any opportunity to dress up."

I didn't appear to have set her mind at ease. "I have a shirt. Should I put it on?"

I couldn't hide my smile. "To eat in a _highway diner_?" She was _completely serious_ , so I smothered it. "Well, I suppose if you like…?"

Phar— _Fareeha_ , I corrected myself, walked back into her room and quite unceremoniously just whipped her sweatshirt off as she approached her closet. It was a bit of a shock, actually. I suppose I _had_ seen quite a lot of her while I was patching her up, but it was one thing to see someone in their underwear on your examining table, and quite another to be wearing a nice dress when they start taking off theirs. It was silly of me, though, because she was wearing a _very_ modest sports bra and it was entirely appropriate to be wearing in front of someone else.

It was just that my thoughts about her in it were _not_ entirely appropriate. That was especially the case given that she was essentially my patient, and I was having most un-doctor-like ideas about those biceps and abs. She was _truly_ a fine specimen of a soldier, and I was truly a bad, bad doctor who was apparently en route to getting her licence revoked. Oh, dear.

"Is this better?" she asked me, holding a white shirt in front of her as she faced me.

To be honest, I'd much rather she just left it off. I couldn't say that, though. "I don't mind what you wear."

She clearly minded, though, because she put it on, buttoned it up, and then smoothed her hair down and looked far less worried. "Alright," she said, more relaxed as she returned to where I was waiting for her in the doorway. She gave me another once over, and then I got a rare smile out of her. "You look different."

I laughed again. "You mean without my wings?" She nodded. "Honestly, I feel a bit naked without them. Especially right after I take my suit off."

Another smile. "Me too," she confessed. "Sometimes I forget I can't just jet over those houses to get the supermarket, or soar above traffic jams—I have to walk like everyone else."

That was probably the longest sentence I'd ever got out of her, and all I could say was: God, her accent, I _loved_ it. I wondered what she thought of mine. "I understand _completely_! I see someone hobbling painfully down the street, and I always think, 'If I just had my rod with me…'."

"…you'd cure everyone?" The admiration in her eyes was intoxicating. "I'm sure you'll find a way one day."

I hoped so. "Thank you. My research _is_ promising."

We stood in the doorway of her room, smiling at each other for a moment. She looked away first, cheeks a little pink.

 _I hope that means what I think it means_ , I found myself wishing. Even if it didn't, everything she did was just so painfully endearing she was going to be the death of me anyway. Why did I always fall _so_ hard for soldiers? "So," I said, trying to force my thoughts about those lean forearms and strong hands out of my mind. "Shall we go have a bite to eat?"

I half-expected her to offer her arm to me—she had the boyish swagger of her fellow army-mates, it wouldn't have been out of place—but she was a little too stiff and self-contained for that. "As long as you don't tell anyone how much I like American food," she told me with the slightest ever grin. It was hardly there but _still_ enough to finish me, and she made it worse by experimenting with my real name. _"...Angela."_

Oh, dear. As we walked down to the diner, I reflected that I was _really_ going to need to direct my research to finding a way to resurrect myself: because otherwise I was going to be in _real_ trouble every time this woman smiled at me.


	4. Scars - Mercy x Pharah

Speed prompt, written in 121 minutes. Please note this story isn't connected to the others. Well, not much :3

* * *

It was after midnight when there was a gentle knock on my motel door.

I'd long since changed into my old comfy nightgown and tucked myself into bed with a good book, and it was a surprise that anyone would visit this late at night. Perhaps someone had been nursing an injury they'd been hesitant to tell me about after the battle…? Mercenaries were always full of such false bravado around each other, and it was only when they were alone at night that their wounds began to ache.

I put a bookmark in and set my book aside, climbing out of bed to answer the door. I hoped it wasn't too serious; Winston slept very soundly and he was the one guarding my suit and staff. If someone was hurt, I'd have to nurse a wound the old-fashioned way.

I wasn't sure who I expected, but I was definitely surprised to see _Fareeha_ on the other side of the door. She'd been at dinner with the rest of the team and I was reasonably certain she wasn't wounded—I'd been watching her a little too closely, and not for very appropriate reasons. Not that I'd really know for certain, though—she never let me examine her after the battle and she was very secretive about any injuries when I suspected she might have sustained them. _Soldiers_ , I'd thought dryly, secretly rolling my eyes at how hopeless they were at seeking appropriate medical help.

But… if she wasn't wounded, and she was at my door at midnight…? I wondered if I might end up going to bed with more than just a good book, after all…

She didn't speak straight away. "I've thrown my shoulder," she said eventually, as if it was a grievous injury.

That didn't seem like the sort of thing a soldier would bother much with—I wondered if it was just a opener to get in my room? "Let me take a look," I told her in case she _was_ injured, showing her past me and gesturing towards my bed. It was the only thing on the room to sit on.

She sat somewhat hesitantly on the edge of it, eyes darting down to my nightgown. "I woke you up," she said in a tone of voice that seemed to mean, 'I am a terrible person and I'm bothering you'.

I shook my head as I walked around her. "I was reading, and it's not bother." I smiled at her before I knelt one knee behind her on the bed. "And, besides, it's what I do."

Just as I reached towards her shoulders and she said with some urgency, "My right shoulder!"

That was _odd_. "Okay…" I answered carefully, wondering if she'd had bad experiences with other medical staff before? It would certainly explain her reluctance to receive a check-over after battle.

I would have normally asked my patients to remove their clothing before an examination, but Fareeha seemed the brink of saying 'forget it!' and running off anyway, so I left it in case her injury was serious and this was the only opportunity I got to treat it. I could feel well enough with her thin sweatshirt on, I supposed.

I probed her joint—she flinched, and it _did_ seem quite swollen, which meant I might just end up going to bed with my book, after all. It was hard to tell, though, because she was quite muscular and without looking at the skin, I had difficult in determining if it was fluid or muscle. I spent some time trying to figure it out anyway, isolating the tenderness to the Supraspinatus tendon. Just as a matter of course, I reached across to her left should so I could feel the thickness there and determine _how_ swollen her right shoulder was by comparis—

" _Stop_!" she shouted _much_ louder than she needed to, and _shoved_ my hand away, recoiling like I'd been holding an axe over her. "I didn't say you could touch there!"

I threw my hands up in a 'yield' position, my heart pounding. "Alright, alright!" I told her, stunned by her reaction. My first thought was 'past abuse', so I trod carefully. "It's alright, I won't touch you anywhere you don't want to be touched," I told her as slowly and as calmly. "I was just wanted to get a comparison between your two shoulders so I could see how swollen this one is, that's all."

That didn't calm her. "Well you _can't_!" she spat, and then looked _so_ conflicted I thought she was going to either _shout_ at me again or cry.

I wasn't sure how to proceed with her—I wanted to consider my own safety, but I also wanted to help her if she was in pain, and with _whatever_ pain ailed her—so I just lowered my arms slowly and waited for her next move.

When she saw how nervous I was, she _swore_ at herself in Arabic and stood anxiously, taking a breath and staring at me with the intense concentration of someone who was focusing on not _exploding_ with emotion. She didn't burst forth with it, though. She just pushed it all back down inside her looking _so_ ashamed, and then spun, marching towards the door.

She shouldn't leave like this. She wasn't in a good place. "Fareeha—!"

She stopped in place at the door, waiting.

For a moment, neither of us said anything.

I took a careful breath. _Definitely past abuse_ , I thought. I couldn't think of any other explanation for all those emotions and all that guilt. "Please—Let me look at your shoulder. I promise I'll ask before touching any other part of you."

She flinched like I'd hit her, and then turned back towards me, such _intensity_ on her face. She looked so tormented, so _angry_ with herself. When she very suddenly took three fast, heavy steps towards me for a moment I thought she might throw me against the wall—I couldn't have stopped her—or struck me, or, well, anything, really—but in an instant she was up against me and—

She kissed me. Ferociously. _Passionately_. The sort of kiss you'd give someone who you'd been _desperate_ to kiss for a long time, and even though I'd certainly thought about her that way and it was most welcome, the shock of it all made it difficult for me to enjoy the embrace.

 _Maybe it's not abuse, maybe she can't accept she likes women_? I wondered as she pulled me up against her hard body. I kept my hands by my sides; I was too scared to touch any of the places I'd admired on her because of how she'd nearly bitten my head off just for touching her _shoulder_.

She noticed, and pulled away, her deep frown returning. " _God,_ I'm sorry! I'm sorry I—"

"You don't need to apologise, honestly you don't," I reassured her quickly, and then paused. "I just… wish I knew what was wrong, Fareeha. You're obviously really upset and I _wish_ you'd tell me? Please, I want to help."

Her face hardened. "You wouldn't help me if I told you. You'd _hate_ me."

My eyebrows jumped. "Are you sure about that?"

"Yes."

Maybe it _was_ abuse? "I think you'd be surprised." I took a deep breath and released it slowly. "Try me. Helping is what I do."

For a moment she stood there, brow wavering, lungs full, faltering and on the _brink_ of letting it all out. _She's going to say it_ , I realised, hanging on each quiver of her perfect lips. _Say it, Fareeha. Say it_. I truly thought she was going to, but then something _snapped_ in her and she turned her head roughly away and closed up again. "No," she said finally. "No, no I can't." She spun and made toward the door again, and, instinctively, I reached out to stop her.

I shouldn't have, not after what happened before. But I did: I grabbed her elbow gently, expecting nothing more than for it to stop her. It didn't. The fabric _slid_ easily of an unexpectedly smooth surface underneath and I ended up with a handful of it as it pulled down off her left shoulder—

—to reveal the steel cog and alloy sheath of a mechanical joint.

We both looked at it. Through the top of her jumper, I could see it lead down through a prosthetic arm.

I suddenly understood. "You're part-robot," I realised aloud. But why would she _hide_ that? It wasn't so uncommon.

She snatched her jumper back and made a beeline for the door again.

I used more force this time. "There's nothing wrong with that, Fareeha!" I was saying as I tried to stop her. "Lots of people are! It's a miracle of modern medicine that we can replace lost limbs with brand new—"

She struggled with me; from what I knew of robots she could _easily_ have crushed me with one hand but she was trying to be gentle. "I'm _part-robot_!" she told me, her voice rising. "I'm a _robot_! I'm _omnic_! Don't you get it?"

I didn't—?

She was getting more emotional. "You and the rest of Overwatch fought us! You fought against us for decades and we slaughtered _millions and millions of innocent—_ "

"Did _you_ kill them?" I asked her. "Did _you_ kill all those people with—"

"With these hands?" She held them up. "Maybe! Who knows _what_ they belonged to before they were attached to me. I could have been _anything_ before I become this _mongrel_ of—"

I held her hands by her sides, shouting over her. " _The war is over, Fareeha_!" I let that hang for a moment. "The war is over! And when we fought it, we fought against _violent killing machines who wanted to destroy humanity_ ," I told her. "Not against amputees with prosthetic limbs who dream of saving the world. Not against people who want to keep on fighting for justice even though they've lost limbs. Not against _you_."

That _struck_ her to the core; I saw her eyes fill with tears.

I kissed _her_ , this time. I _couldn't_ help it; she was in so much pain. Her lips felt soft and human, the tears spilling down her cheeks were human. There was a human heart beating in that chest; I could feel it as I put my and to her torso. That pain was so human, and I _ached_ to relieve it; to piece by piece take the clothing off her and show her she could feel human even if part of her wasn't. Now now, though: not while she was crying. Not while she _hated_ the mechanical parts of herself and boiled with self-loathing. But, _god_ , I yearned to heal that pain.

I didn't stop kissing her until I could feel her begin to relax, until the tears had stopped rolling off her chin. I only pulled away when I was _sure_ she wouldn't think I was trying to escape her.

I touched her mechanical shoulder. "Do you think I mind this?" I murmured.

She couldn't look at me. "It's more than just that arm."

 _Oh_. Well, it didn't change anything. If anything, it made me even _more_ curious about her. "You can show me, it's alright," I promised her. No sooner had I said that, she immediately tensed up in panic again and I realised it had sounded like an invitation. I put a quietening hand on her stomach. "Not now. I'm just saying _when_ you want to, you can feel safe to."

She swallowed, still looking down between us, her long black lashes veiling her lovely doe eyes. God, she was beautiful. She was _so_ beautiful. How could she _possibly_ think she was anything but? In any other circumstance, I would have kissed her again. Not now, though.

It took her a moment to relax again. "Thank you," she murmured. I could barely hear her, and she was holding onto my forearms _so_ tightly that I wanted to wrap my arms around her and tell her everything was going to be okay.

"I'm sorry about…" she let that sentence trail off, lifting her eyes from the floor and looking hesitantly up at me. "Will you fix my shoulder? It's been aching for hours, I can't sleep…"

I exhaled with relief, giving her a smile and a gentle nod.

She sat on the edge of my bed again, and finally— _finally_ —relaxed as I tended to her.


	5. Origins - Mercy x Pharah

**Based on this ask from Tumblr: "In your headcanon, how did Fareeha and Angela meet? How old were they, cause I don't think they have said when they joined. What was each of their opinions on the other? Instantly smitten or oblivious?"**

 **Written in 45 minutes.**

* * *

After what happened to Amélie and Gérard, none of the other Overwatch agents brought their family within a thousand miles of Gibraltar. People stopped passing around photos of their husbands, wives and children—they even stopped _talking_ about them. Everyone was too scared of what Talon, or remnants of the Omnics, or _anyone_ might do to their loved ones. Our families had never been targets before.

For that reason, I began to know very little about my fellow agents and what was going on in their lives; children I'd watched grow up disappeared from my world.

When I was recalled to Gibraltar after the disbanding, it had been _years_ since I'd seen any of the other agents. I'd been in the horn of Africa in refugee camps and war zones and out of contact with everyone myself.

Imagine my surprise when I landed and saw _Ana Amari_ —a decorated sniper and second in command when I'd left—standing on the edge of the cliff in her Raptora suit and looking out towards the choppy sea.

I was _sure_ I'd heard she was long-dead; not that there may not be technology to counter that in the right hands these days, I supposed. Well, whether the reports of her death were wrong or there was some _amazing_ technology I was yet to learn about, I simply couldn't fly across the landing fast enough to see her. I didn't care that Ana and I used to butt heads over her unnecessarily aggressive battle-tactics, it was so reassuring to see her. It must have been a decade.

I landed beside her, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Ana!" I said, a big smile on my face as she turned towards me, "How good it is to see you after all this—"

It wasn't Ana.

The words died on my lips. That surly face looking down at me was so similar to hers, very similar, with her dark skin, dark hair and dark eyes. She even had the Eye of Ra tattoo—no, the tattoo was slightly different, as well—and she was so similar and so different that I thought for a moment that this was the work of Talon. Talon must have resurrected Ana from a decade ago, which explained why she looked so young, and this similar-but-different Ana had been plucked from the dead and sent here to kill us all.

The woman didn't attack me, though. "I'm sorry, I'm not _Ana_ Amari," she said quietly instead, but with the flat and respectful tone I heard so often from soldiers, "she was my mother." She stood to attention, as if I was her superior. "Fareeha Amari," she said, and I remembered hearing the name a lifetime ago. "But on duty people call me 'Pharah'."

I was still reeling from the earlier shock. "I'm sorry about the mistake, I just—"

"I get it a lot," she said quietly, with discomfort that betrayed some deeper feelings about that. She didn't elaborate. "I know I look like her."

She did and she didn't; she was tall like Ana and had Ana's sharp features, but I'd never found Ana that pretty—perhaps because she was a good 20 years older than me—but Fareeha was _quite_ pretty. Pretty in a way that would make me double-take to look again if I'd walked past her in a crowd.

Oh, dear. I knew where _that_ thought was going. I closed my jaw and forced a smile instead. "Pleasure to meet you," I said, definitely meaning it, and extended my hand to shake with her. "Dr Angela Ziegler—'Mercy'. If that suit is as fragile as your mother's, I think we'll get to know each other rather well." I was definitely _far_ happier about that than I professionally should have been.


	6. No Pulse - Pharah (POV) x Mercy - SFW

From a prompt by SniperCT on Tumblr who wanted some Rocket Angel. I have a theory about Mercy experimenting with immortality with her nanotechnology, which explains her avoiding explaining to Mei why she looks so young, why she has an emote called 'No Pulse'. Written in 78 minutes.

* * *

I.

The first time I knew something was wrong with Mercy was when I misjudged the thrust I needed to get to a ledge and overshot it, nearly landing _both_ Mercy and I over the edge of a cliff and into the sea.

In terrible slow motion, I watched the sea approach—I would sink like a _rock_ in the Raptora—as I desperately hammered my empty thrusters and _begged_ them to unchoke. In the end they did, and we shot back into the sky and landed on the ledge I'd aimed for in the first place.

My heart was _pounding_ and I was _panting_ like I'd just fought the entire opposing team by myself, but Mercy was just standing still beside me with a serene smile on her face.

I gave her a weird look. "We just both nearly _died_ ," I pointed out. "How the hell are you smiling about that?"

She just laughed pleasantly. "There's no point in getting flustered! It doesn't help."

" _Right_ ," I said dryly, and then shot back into the sky with her merrily tethered to me by the Caduseus staff.

Maybe her 'amazing medical technology' was actually just _serious_ drugs.

* * *

II.

The second clue I got was while we were fighting on _my_ home turf: the Temple of Anubis. It was a sweltering Egyptian Summer and easily 40C+ out—not to mention how intense the midday sun was—and with the burners heating the backs of my calves as well, I think I sweat out the entire water content of my body before we'd even left the ship. I'd forgotten how much I _hated_ fighting in summer.

One glance behind me, though, and I thought the heat had made me hallucinate: Mercy wasn't red-faced and sweating buckets like I was. Her skin was still white as milk and she hadn't broken a sweat at all. In fact, she was busy gazing upwards at the sun like she was _enjoying_ the warmth.

She saw me looking. "Lovely day to be flying, isn't it?" she called. "Not a cloud in the sky!"

* * *

III.

The final clincher was when we both got caught in melee, and while I tried my hardest to body-block her—my suit at least had _some_ armour—fucking _Roadhog_ got around me and absolutely cut her up while I _shouted_ at the top of my lungs. I couldn't fire a rocket as his feet because it would hurt both of us and probably not even scratch him, and I didn't have any cooldowns up on my Raptora. _God_ , the sound of her _screaming…_ I wasn't going to forget that very quickly—and I was punching at what felt like thin air as I felt _every microsecond of my thrusters recharging_ until I was _finally_ able to grab her as she fell and catapult us both back into the sky and far, far away from the scrum of melee.

I had her cradled in my arms, hanging onto her life by a thread. Her eyes were wide and I could see she was in considerable pain as she clutched at her middle where he'd torn her suit to shreds.

We couldn't lose her. The team wouldn't be the same without her—without that overly cheerful voice and being brought back from the brink of oblivion in a halo of golden light. I couldn't imagine flying through the skies without her cheerful voice behind me.

"It's okay," I told her, landing as gently as I could and laying her out on the decking as I rushed to grab a nearby medkit for her. "You're going to be fine, you are, we'll get you patched up…"

She laughed weakly. "That's _my_ line," she told me as she accepted the kit from me and started unwrapping bandages. It was a slow process; I was worried she'd pass out before she finished it. I hoped she wouldn't, I really hoped she wouldn't: I was no doctor, and while I'd had rudimentary first aid training, it wasn't enough to save someone's life without one.

I spotted her staff beside her, forgotten, and picked it up. "Can I use this on you?" I wondered, examining the control panel on it. It didn't look too difficult; I'd flown _fighter_ jets before, I'd be able to figure this out.

"It won't work on me," she said simply, pulling her hand away from her stomach while she quickly tried to bandage—

—there was no blood.

That made me double-take. Actually, her white suit should have been _soaked_ with the way Roadhog had been carving her, shouldn't it? There wasn't a drop to be seen anywhere, it was still pristine white, if in tatters. Now, I wasn't a doctor, but I did definitely know that people _bled_ when they were cut.

And I didn't know of _any_ technology that stopped _that_ from happening _before_ they were healed. Unless maybe she'd somehow healed herself...?

While I was staring at her, she finished wrapping the bandages around her middle and held out her hand so I could assist her to stand.

"That's better," she said brightly in German, brushing down the rest of her suit. "Now, where were we?"

I closed my jaw. There was no use in asking about it now; we had a payload to escort.

* * *

IV.

It had been a _long_ night out; I hadn't drank like that since I was in the army. Apparently victorious mercenaries were every bit as iron-livered as soldiers, and I was _hammered_ trying to keep up with them. My head was swimming as we got kicked out of the bar, and was vaguely aware of Reinhardt declaring loudly behind me to the barkeep, "Nonsense! I could drink _twice_ that amount and still not be 'drunk and disorderly'!"

We still got ejected, though.

Lena wouldn't stop imitating Amelie's accent and _giggling_ incessantly—until Amelie got sick of it and parted way with us. Lena was _still_ going even after she'd gone. " _Maybe I'll get lucky and you'll die of alcohol poisoning tonight_ …" She mimicked her, almost falling over from laughter.

I'd been watching Angela from what I had _thought_ was the corner of my eye and wondering about that lack of blood, when I tripped on something and I _actually_ fell over. ...Okay, apparently I had been watching her a little more closely than I thought.

Angela had had _her_ fair share of alcohol, too. " _No_!" she cried out with exaggerated drama, falling to her knees beside me and taking in me in her arms as if I'd been mortally wounded.

I was drunk enough to enjoy that _far_ more than I normally would have let myself; the chest-piece of her Valkyrie suit was moulded fibreglass, but the top she was wearing _wasn't_. Her chest was soft—I was rather enjoying having my cheek against it.

"Don't worry, Fareeha! I'll save you!" she called, " _Helden sterben nicht_!" She ceremoniously lowered a palm to my forehead.

Everyone else in the team was _laughing_ , and in the midst of it, I could feel _her_ ribs pulse as she laughed, too. I didn't want to get up. She was so warm and so soft, that was what I noticed the most. The women I'd slept women previously had been wiry and muscled like I was—not Angela, though. And hearing her laugh… I nestled into her chest for just a moment more as everyone overtook us up the footpath.

The hand that had been on my forehead stroked my hair. "Psst," she whispered close to my ear, like I'd forgotten my lines. "When I say that you're supposed to come back to life!"

I felt _quite_ alive at that moment. "I don't speak German," I told her, and was about to point out that one of my ears was buried in her chest and all I could hear was her breathing, and the beating of her—

—heart. Except… I _couldn't_ hear it, at all.

Suddenly, I felt much more sober. I pushed my ear closer to her chest, listening for even the faintest, tiniest beat.

She laughed, not understanding what I was doing. "Oof! I think you're supposed to buy me dinner first!"

There was nothing. Her chest was silent. No blood, no sweat, no heartbeat…

This _wasn't_ drugs.

I sat away from her, stunned. It must have shown in my face, because her cheery smile fell instantly when she saw my eyes moving between her face and her chest. "... _Oh_."

I didn't—I mean—how—but she was _warm_? I couldn't even figure out how to _ask_ what was going on.

She immediately looked very serious. "Listen," she said somewhat grimly. "There's something I need to tell you about me."


	7. Did We Just? Mercy (POV) x Pharah

From a prompt on Tumblr: **"Maybe write some rocket angel where Pharah and Mercy fall asleep together after a night at the bar and wake up all embarassed?"**

Speed prompt, written in 48 minutes.

* * *

I've always thought there's nothing like waking up to the beautiful and bright morning sunlight shining directly in your face. Get your full day's worth of vitamin D before you're even awake, that's what I say.

At least, I normally say that.

Last night, though—or perhaps 'this morning' is more apt?—I don't think any of the team actually _left_ the bar until well after dawn had already started to break. So I think I must only just have fallen asleep when the warm rays starting to shine in through my window and onto my—

—wait a moment.

I opened my eyes properly: not _my_ window. I had a room on the ground floor that faced the car park, but through _this_ window—the one I was facing now—I could see the gleaming towers of Numbani's central business district.

I turned over, thinking I must have accidentally gone to sleep in the wrong—

—I wasn't alone in bed. There was someone wrapped up in the blankets facing away from me, and from the fall of her waist I could tell it was a woman.

Well, this was certainly a very interesting turn of events.

 _I suppose I could sneak out_ , I thought, wondering who I was sharing the bed with. Chances were _they_ didn't remember anything, either, and I could just chalk up ending up in another woman's bed to the large volume of French champagne I'd had before I'd left. Except I... rather wanted to know who it was.

I was just leaning over her and trying to catch a glimpse of what her hair colour was, or what her skin colour was, when a _very_ dry voice said, "You know, if you're looking for something to watch, I _do_ have a television."

I took a gulp of air, startled: _Fareeha_! I paused for a moment, tilting my head, consider that; there were definitely at lot worse people I could have ended up in bed with. But _how embarrassing_. "Sorry!" I told her. "I was just…" _'Trying to figure out who I'd slept with…'_ sounded a little rude, didn't it?

"…Trying to figure out who you'd slept next to?" she guessed, pulling the blanket down off her head.

I exhaled with relief at her wording. Maybe we hadn't? "Oh, dear. Was I being that obvious?"

"'Obvious' _does_ appear to be your motto," she said, her voice still bone dry. "I'm surprised you didn't wake me up in a halo of golden light and shouting in German at the top of your lungs."

"Well, this lovely morning sun has that halo of light covered for me." I gestured towards the window with an easy laugh. "And as for shouting in German at the top of my lungs, I may need a little help to get me to that…" I told her, and then was immediately dismayed something so licentious had come out of my mouth, especially first thing in the morning and before I'd even really figured out how I managed to get in Fareeha's bed in the first place. Oh, dear...

She was _gaping_ in horror at me.

I started to say, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—" at the same time as she said, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare at—" and then we both laughed nervously and tried not to look at each other for a moment.

She recovered first. "I was too drunk to carry you all the way up to your room after you passed out. We didn't—" Her tan cheeks went a bit pink. "Well, you know."

And here was me automatically assuming that I'd ended up _sleeping_ with her... What a conclusion _that_ had been to jump to. "I hope you'd not offended that I thought that maybe we had."

Her lips were taut for a moment while she stared up at the ceiling; her big doe eyes veiled for a moment. "May I confess something?"

"Well, I'm a doctor, not a priest," I told her. "But I suppose I do specialise in making people feel better…"

She chuckled at me politely even though I knew I wasn't very funny. She sobered quickly though, turning her head towards me. "I… probably _wasn't_ too drunk to carry you upstairs."


	8. Locked Up - Tracer (POV) x Widowmaker

Speed prompt, written in 41 minutes.

* * *

I nearly had him! I knew Watchpoint like the back of my hand—I could have zipped around this place with my eyes closed and not bumped into anything—and so I'd followed that Einstein-haired, crazy-eyed Aussie halfway across the map until I had him cornered in the observation deck. I was just mentally trying to plan my path around the room so I wouldn't get exploded by one of those bouncing-ticking-bomb-thingies he was always lobbing around as I blinked in when I heard a loud _snap_! and before I felt it—because _oh boy did I feel it_ —I realised I was stuck. Oh no!

"Well, lookie here."

I lookied there, and that skinny old ugly Junkrat-guy was leaning oh-so casually against Winston's table laughing a few times like he was completely mental and pointing his launcher-thing at me.

Actually, now that I thought on it, I hadn't followed him here, had I? He'd _led_ me here. _Bollocks_! I had my blasters aimed at him, but he'd kill me first if we fired at each other. My teammates would never even find my body if he killed me all the way up here. They wouldn't hear me shout, either—not that our comms would reach that far.

He was completely mad, though. Like, absolutely bonkers: maybe he wouldn't kill me after all? Maybe he just wanted to muck around with me a little?

"Let's have a good look at you, then, shall we?" he said, and _giggled_ right up at the top of his voice like he was imitating a girl. His hair was singed from fire and his face was half-blackened with soot and he was _creepy as hell_. The giggling was the worst of it.

"You're _tiny_!" he told me, like it wasn't something I didn't already know. "You're almost not even worth the 140 grams of nitro I've got in one of these babies, it'd be like… like blowing up a blowfly with a grenade!" He giggled at the thought of it.

"Yeah, I wouldn't want you to waste a good bomb on me," I told him, thinking maybe I _wasn't_ going to die after all.

His giggle suddenly degenerated into a full on like evil cackle and then he shouted, "But I've never blown up a blowfly with a grenade before! Maybe it's _awesome_!"

His finger closed on the trigger while I started _screaming_ —it's not like I'm chicken or anything, but you have to understand it's actually pretty scary being murdered by a psychopath—but when the trigger closed it sounded like the clean round of a rifle, not a makeshift grenade-launching thing.

He'd stopped laughing, and a single stream of blood rolled down between his eyes. One of his ticking bombs rolled to the other side of the room, dinged, and exploded as he fell.

Behind him, _Widowmaker_ was lowering her gun.

What on…?

We stared at each other for a moment. Her eyebrows were lowered.

"But…" I began, confused. "He's on _your_ team."

She didn't say anything, but impassively raised her rifle again.

I honestly seriously thought she was going to kill me as well—heaven knows she'd tried often enough, and I had no bloody idea what was going on—and so I jammed my eyes shut, expecting to head another round go off and to end up like _he_ had. When the shot fired again, the trap around my leg sprung open so violently than half of it clattered across the room.

 _Then_ she put her rifle down and walked over to me, her heels clicking on the lino floor. "Can you walk?" she asked me, poker-faced as she looked me up and down.

I gingerly tested my leg. "I think so?"

She nodded, and for a moment, we stared at each other. Or, rather, I gaped at her.

She'd _saved_ me.

It was so much to take in. It was something _Amelie_ would have done, and for just a tiny little moment I thought that maybe it _was_ her. Maybe she was all locked up inside this pale-skinned assassin, maybe she wasn't gone forever? "Thank you… Amelie."

Her face _hardened_ immediately like I'd slapped her really hard. "It's ' _Widowmaker_ '," she hissed, and then fired a couple of rounds at my feet so I had to jump backwards. "It's 'Widowmaker'!"

God, though, it really felt like she was in there, otherwise why would she have saved me?

"Well," I said, swallowing. "Thank you for saving me, anyway."

She didn't acknowledge that I'd said it, she just nudged Junkrat's body with the long nose of her sniper rifle. "I'm going to tell him he got in the way of my shot," she said neutrally, and then turned, fired her grapple and shot right on out of the window she'd come from.


	9. From Beyond the Grave - Pharah x Mercy

Speed prompt, written in 71 minutes. **Tumblr prompt from Mysral: "Mercy helping a recently-rezzed Pharah deal with her "first time"."**

* * *

I nearly had that Talon scum: it was _perfect_. I'd landed on a ledge just behind her and was waiting for her take that one inevitable step backwards onto it when someone fired at her from below.

 _Just a little more_ , I thought, my rocket launcher aimed straight at Widowmaker's ledge. _Come just a little closer, Spider, and I'm going to blow you and your Talon monsters to—_

Something cold and metallic pressed against the skin on my neck. "Now _this_ is familiar."

That voice… it sent _chills_ down my spine. I knew Reaper's voice was the last thing my mother ever heard.

"It's not often I get to eliminate _two_ generations of Overwatch agents." His breath was as cold as the gun on my neck, and he _stank_ like a rotting corpse. Because I was breathing deeply, I took a lungful of it and nearly dry-wretched.

My heart was pounding. I knew he didn't mess around, and I had a 21-second cooldown left on my jets. If I could just keep him talking…

I searched _desperately_ for a conversation starter. "I'm not an Overwatch agent," I hissed, hoping it was enough, "and thanks to you and your _disgusting_ ilk, I'll never be. Your inflated ego _destroyed_ Overwatch and everything it stood for." I knew it it wasn't what had happened, and I suspected he'd want to correct me.

But apparently, I was wrong. He chuckled. "I'll take that as a compliment," he said, and then cocked his gun with a pronounced click.

"All this _foreplay_ ," a heavily accented voice said from the ledge below, "are you actually going to shoot, or do _I_ need to do it?" When I stole a glance down at her, her rifle was aimed at me, too. She was peering at me through the sight, ready to fire.

13 seconds left.

"And _I'll_ take it as a compliment that you think it takes _two_ Talon assassins to kill me," I told them. "What a pity neither of you will!"

Both of them laughed, and neither of them seemed interested in talking.

8 seconds left.

7 seconds left.

And—oh, no, oh _god_ no!—I couldn't think of anything else to say to try and get them talking...! All I could hear was my pulse in my ears and the very distant shouts of my teammates somewhere else...

5 seconds left.

That was then it occurred to me: I might not escape from this. This might be it—this _couldn't_ be it?— _Allahu akbar, my teammates will show up and distract them for four seconds so I can—_

"Tell your mother I sent you," was the last thing I heard before the _CRACK_ of his sawn-off shotgun fired downwards into my chest and strained my eardrums and—

— _suddenly_ my lungs were on fire like something had _exploded_ inside it and I _couldn't breathe_ —I was breathing, but I kept _inhaling and inhaling_ but nothing was happening and I didn't feel like I was getting any air—and then there was something in my throat and I _coughed_ and blood splattered out of my mouth—

—there was so much blood trickling out from between the joins of my armour. I tried to pick my armour off so I could press my hands against the wound and stop it from—

—and then I was on my knees, my launcher tumbling onto the ground far below me and blood splashing from my chest onto the tiles in front of me—my blood—and—

—I couldn't see anymore, my ears were ringing and as I tried to stand, my muscles shook underneath me and I was dimly aware of laughter, deep, sinister laughter as I felt cool tiles and the warm blood on them fall against my cheek.

 _I'm dying_ , I realised suddenly, clutching weakly at my chest as if I could stop all my blood from pouring out of me. Nothing stopped it. I could feel in pumping out of me onto the tiles around me, and I couldn't _get_ to the holes to stop it and—

 _This can't be how I die…_ _it_ can't _be… I can't… I…._

Everything fell quiet.

Peaceful, even.

It was a warm summer day, and I was sitting on my mother's knee—a tiny child again—and she was showing me her rifle as she cleaned it, explaining all the different parts. I watched with interest; her rifle was so pretty and it gleamed in the midday sunlight. "One day you'll use one of these, my little Fareeha," she was saying, "and I just know you'll be _incredible_!"

Then, she _smiled_ at me. That smile meant _everything_ to me. My whole world was in that smile: I could feel her pride, her love, everything I'd always wished for, I finally had it. She was my mother and she loved me with all her heart, and I was going to make me _so proud_ of me.

Thinking about how proud she was going to be of me when I grew up, I closed my eyes and exhaled one last time.

My struggle was finally—

" _HEROES NEVER DIE_!"

—and then I was _struggling_ again, like I was rocketing upwards to the surface of the ocean after being drowned in its depths.

When I surfaced, I heard my own gasping breath as I took a huge gulp of air, and again, and again, and _this_ time, it held, I felt like the air was doing something instead of just escaping from all the holes in my chest. As I panted, clutching uselessly at my chest—my fingers just scraped against my thick armour—I realised I'd been rolled onto my back and propped up slightly.

I didn't believe it at first. CPR wouldn't help a gushing chest would, how could I still be—? What was—?

"It's alright, Fareeha," a voice said, using my real name.

 _Mercy_...?

When I opened my eyes, her face and wings were framed by the midday sun. There was a gentle smile on her face, too. "It's alright," she said gently, taking my hands in hers for a moment so I couldn't keep clutching at my chest. "You're alright now."

I wrenched my hands free; there was still blood on them. But I was awake—I was alive—how—? "I don't—?" _Oh, no, I'd just been—_ I struggled break free from her and sit up. "Widowmaker and Reaper are here!" I told her. "If you're not careful, they'll—!"

"They're gone, and I've just resurrected you," she told me in a soothing voice, putting a hand on my chest and pushing me back down so my head rested on her knees. "Rest for a moment. Just until you get your bearings. It's confusing, I know."

There was nothing else to do except follow her instructions; I didn't want to hurt her by throwing her off and trying to stand.

As my vision cleared and I began to be able to think clearly again, I was able to reflect on what happened: Reaper flanked me and unceremoniously killed me. Just like he had my mother. I'd never gotten a chance to make her proud of me; he _took_ that from me.

My resolve hardened: _I was going to_ murder _him_. For _both_ of us.

"Oh, dear, that's a rather sour expression," Mercy told me, her musical laugh distracting me from swearing my vengeance. "I gather you remember what happened now?"

"I do. Every horrible second of it," I said dryly, back looking up at her.

"Well, that's a good sign, at least," she told me. "Shall we get back to work, then?"

That smile of hers was so beautiful; it was hard to decide if I preferred the smile I was dying to or the one that brought me back. "Just like that?"

She chuckled. "Just like that," she confirmed, helping me up. "Modern medicine!"

I let her, and then looked down at the tiles on the ledge; they were soaked with my blood and painted from my struggle in it. I couldn't believe I had any left in me; I didn't understand at all. I suppose it didn't matter, though, did it? I was clearly alive, and I felt… surprisingly _good_? Or, actually, _better_ than good—I felt energised and ready for action like I'd just had a long night's sleep instead of what had _actually_ happened.

It was _so_ bizarre.

A gruff voice called from below, "If you two are quite finished, maybe we could _get back to work_?" When I looked over the ledge, Soldier 76 was holding my launcher.

Mercy took my arm, wings extended. "Shall we?" That smile again…

It was surreal. Nodding, I checked my sensors—green across the board—and then stepped into the air with Mercy beside me.


	10. No Man Left Behind - Mercy(POV) x Pharah

Speed prompt, written in 58 minutes.

* * *

We were nearly there! We were in the scrum of the final stretch of our escort, with bullets flying _everywhere_ and everyone _shouting_ , and I could feel it in my bones: we were going to make it!

I'd ducked into a recess to catch my breath and stay out of the line of fire when the noise began to die down. We must have defeated those awful mercenaries that had been sent to stop our escort; what a relief that was, because they'd been a tough bunch. I could hear voices, so I peeked out of the doorway, taking a deep breath and opening my mouth to ask if anyone needed my assistance… just in time to see Reinhardt marching the escort around a corner at least a hundred feet away.

The voices I'd heard didn't belong to my team: the people standing _right in front of me_ with their backs to me and regrouping were _Talon assassins_.

They hadn't seen me.

 _Oh, no,_ I thought, hurriedly retreating back into the recess. It was a dead end; the only way out was past them.

Where were my team? Why had they _left_ me here? I wanted to comm them, but I was worried if I so much as _whispered_ those Talon monsters would hear me, and there was no one to resurrect _me_ if they did.

God, what should I do? Should I just wait here and hope for the best? I supposed if they didn't know I was—

"Hey, didn't they have a _healer_ somewhere?" That was _Reaper's_ voice

Someone scoffed. "She probably flitted away with the rest of those _vermin_ ," a voice with a heavy French accent answered. "But I'll get her next go around, don't you worry..."

"Not if I get her first," a deep and muffled voice answered her. I heard the rattling of chains.

 _Yes,_ I thought as loudly as possible, _go far, far away and look for me elsewh—_

"No, I didn't see her leave," Reaper decided. The was a long pause. "I think she's still here."

I draw a sharp breath—too sharp, because now I could hear them all _listening._

My hands shaking, I unsheathed my blaster. It would be useless against all of them, but what could I do?

God, where were my team? Where were they? I couldn't do this by my—

" _There_ you are," a dark figure materialised in front of me, blocking me up against the wall. "So we meet again."

"Don't do this, Reyes!" I tried to shout, but he'd already raised his pistols to immediately _fire_ at me—at me, his old colleague!—and it was only because he was taller that I managed to duck under his arm to avoid being shot at point-blank range. I ran out of the recess—crying out for help, I'll admit—and _straight into the rest of his team_. God, there was so many of them, and the only reason they didn't all mow me down in an instant was that they were surprised to see me.

 _Terrified_ and with no other option, I turned and _ran_.

They recovered from their shock and soon bullets and shot guns pullets started to zip past my head and, behind me was the heavy _thump thump thump_ and rattle of chains as that _monster_ pig-creature they had tanking for pursued me.

He was going to get me, I realised.

He may have been morbidly obese and horribly unfit, but he was tall, _much_ taller than me. And he was laughing. A horrible, animal-like sound and before I could read a corner, a doorway, a box, _anything_ to get me out of their line of fire _suddenly I was plucked off my feet and rushing through the air and spinning towards—_

 _God_ , the horrible creature! His pig-mask bulged and shrank with each breath, and he _stank_ like cigarettes and filth. "Huh, _pretty_ ," was his comment to me before he raised his colossal makeshift gun and aimed it in my face and I was screaming, crying out, struggling, and begging for help from anyone who'd listen and then—

—I was _rushing through the air again_ , but upwards? Upwards by my staff…?

" _Don't let go_!" That was _Pharah's_ voice! " _Rocket barrage incoming_!"

And then the sky _lit up with_ gunpower and rockets and I could hear them whistling through the air and exploding in showers of fireworks all over the ground. The Talon mercenaries were shouting in alarm and fleeing—thank _goodness—_ and by the time she was out of rockets there was no sign of them.

My grip on my staff was slipping because I was shaking so much, but in one clean movement, Pharah lifted me into her arms and we catapulted through the air and _away_ from what had very nearly been my final resting place.

I didn't realise how hard I was breathing until that point. She did. "We thought you'd gone ahead!" she tried to explain. "When I realised you were still back there…"

Her stricken expression was all the apology I needed. "Thank you for coming back for me."

She gave me a surly grin. "I don't leave people behind to get killed."

 _That was very nearly what happened,_ I thought, remembering that horrible creature's gun in my face.

She saw my expression, and her arms tightened around me. "I'm going to keep a closer eye on you from now on," she promised me. "I'll take good care of you, because heaven knows you've patched me up enough."

That was actually very comforting. "After the experience I've just had, you can start by buying me a really stiff drink..." I paused. "Or perhaps more than one."

She laughed; I actually couldn't remember if I'd heard her laugh before? It was rather a pleasant sound, and a relief to hear it. "It's a deal," she said as we slowly drifted back towards the ground and the safety of Reinhardt's shield.


	11. Coming Home - Mercy(POV)xPharah

Speed prompt, written in 97 minutes. **Set directly after 'No Man Left Behind'.**

* * *

That night after dinner, the drink Fareeha ordered me was so strong that a single sip of it had me spluttering. " _Goodness_!" I said hoarsely, my eyes watering.

"Well, you said you wanted a stiff drink," she told me with a wry grin, leaning on the restaurant bar and pouring her own down her throat like it was nothing but water. It was almost painful to watch. "This is what we drank in the army."

I was very much _not_ a soldier, it seemed. "Do they use it as part of the process of breaking you in?" I managed, trying another sip. "Or acclimatising you to _torture_?"

She laughed at that; I quite liked the sound of it. She wasn't often in a good enough mood to laugh so easily, and hearing it set me at ease. Just being around her set me at ease; even if she _wasn't_ able to jet me away at the first sign of trouble wearing only jeans and a dress shirt instead of her Raptora suit.

…not that you could really tell she wasn't wearing it, I joked with myself: her body was so chiselled and her shoulders so broad that she was a slender version of the suit herself anyway. She probably felt like steel as well; I kept finding my eyes wandering downwards to that perfectly flat stomach and wondering if it was hard with musculature. Her thighs certainly were.

 _Oh, dear,_ I thought, taking a much larger mouthful of my drink and trying not to admire how she looked in her jeans. _I'm still attracted to her. Not a very good thing for a doctor to realise about her patient…_

She looked impressed by how much I'd just drunk. "We'll make a soldier out of you yet!"

I doubt soldiers were supposed to get involved with one another, either... "I very much doubt that," I told her, coughing as I accidentally took a deep breath of the _fumes_ of it. "If I finish this, you'll have to carry me back to my room by nine o'clock."

She gave her triple shot a critical look and then abandoned it. "Well, then, I suppose I'd better stop here," she said with a grin, putting her cup down and giving the barman a terse headshake when he offered to top her up.

I blinked at her. _Was she…? No, no she probably wasn't. Wishful thinking, Angela_. I took another big mouthful of spirits and then decided I really needed to stay sober. It wouldn't do to get drunk and make a pass at my patient. "No, please finish your drink," I told her. " _I'll_ stop drinking."

She didn't even _look_ at her cup. In fact, she crossed her arms. "Never hurts to be prepared," she told me, flashing me that subtle grin of hers and holding eye-contact with me for just a little too long.

Neither of us looked away.

Oh, dear, I knew what that meant. I was about to get myself into trouble again, wasn't I…?

Heavy footsteps interrupted us; we both jumped and hurriedly looked away from each other. "Well, then, comrades!" Reinhardt's booming voice blasted from behind me as he draped a friendly arm over both our shoulders. "How's all this, fighting together again! The old team, serving the people in the name of _justice_!" He was _drunk_.

Fareeha flinched at that; of course she did. The 'old team' had her mother on it. Neither of us wanted to correct jolly Reinhardt, though, and so we let him bang on about glory and _great deeds_ until he spotted someone else he recognised ' _from the old days!_ ' across the bar and then practically charged over towards them.

"Want to go outside before he comes back?" Fareeha asked me dryly under her breath, and I nodded.

The balcony had been renovated since I'd last been in Gibraltar; it made sense, it had been _years_. The tiles were new—cleaner, I noticed, but the summery night air and beautiful view of the Alborean Sea was exactly the same. How many times had I stood here and looked across it? I knew every jag of that cliff-face. Honestly, Overwatch may have closed some years ago, but sometimes it felt like only yesterday.

I leant my elbows on the thick stone balustrade, looking outward.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Fareeha's voice was quiet as she settled her hip against the stone, watching me. Then, considering that comment, she made a face. "Or a Euro cent, or a credit, or whatever currency they use here now." There was that subtle smile again.

I shook my head and chuckled. "Nothing interesting, just being nostalgic."

"Ah." She looked out across the sea as well; the breeze tussled her hair. "It must have been amazing being stationed here, in a place like this."

I smiled, despite myself. "It was."

She watched me for a moment, and then sighed and looked back out at the coast. "I used to dream of it, you know. Since I was a little girl. Mother showed me photos and I used to imagine standing in the watchtower with a beautiful rifle like hers, ready for anything." She sounded so wistful. "I dreamt of _saving the world_ , of _protecting the innocent_ , of being on posters, myself, so that one day a girl like me would gaze up at her wall at a poster of me and say, 'I want to be _just_ like her'."

I looked across at her, quiet for a moment. "Perhaps you'll get the chance after all."

She laughed a couple of times. She didn't sound convinced. "Perhaps."

I considered the heroic figure she cut in the twilight, even in her civilian clothes. She was an _incredible_ soldier, and a very formidable fighter. "You know, if children knew about you, they would already put posters of you on their walls."

That made her cheeks flush a little. She scoffed. "I'm just doing my job."

I gave her a gentle smile. "Well, you saved my life today, so you're a hero to me."

I don't think she expected me to say something like that, and she looked across at me, a little wide-eyed. I kept smiling at her until she looked away and blushed in earnest. "I'd be dead a dozen times if not for you and your technology."

"We make a great team," I agreed. I reached across the distance between us and put my hand over hers on the balustrade and we locked eyes again.

Goodness, she was _beautiful_. Too beautiful. Her heavy brow, dark features and full lips were positively mesmerising; I could have gazed at them all day.

Those full lips of hers part as she looked at me, and she lifted her hand from mine, turning her hip against the stone so she was facing me. Her fingers traced jawline; my skin sang underneath them. "God, you're beautiful," she murmured, echoing my thoughts. I could see her eyes dipping to my lips.

Oh, dear, I _was_ in trouble…

"I realise it's very unprofessional of me," her voice was barely more than a whisper, "but can I kiss you?"

From the way I was looking at her, I'm sure the answer was obvious. "I'm your doctor," I just felt I should point out anyway, although she was already leaning in towards me and I certainly wasn't going to push her away.

"I don't mind if you don't." Her breath tickled my lips.

"Yes, well, tell that to the medical ethics board when they've finally found a reason to disqualify me…"

"I'm not going to tell them," she murmured. "Are you?"

Was she _kidding_? I'd spent my entire life trying to avoid their scrutiny; I shook my head a fraction. We stood there in the sunset and salt air for a moment, her neck craned down and mine stretched up, our breath mingling and our lips a hair's breath away from one another's before I realised she was waiting for _me_ to bridge the distance. Just in case I _wasn't_ willing to jeopardise my medical licence.

Well, I suppose I'd taken far worse risks in my life, hadn't I?

Standing on my tip-toes, I touched my lips against hers. Gently, at first; but then her arms snaked around my waist and pulled me firmly up to her and soon we were opening out mouths to one another.

Honestly… It was like coming home after a long journey; like _finally_ relaxing into a soft leather chair at the end of a hard day's work. I'd been working around her for so long now that she felt safe and familiar, and kissing her, touching her, felt like applying soothing balm to a muscle I didn't know had been aching.

I brushed the blade of my tongue along hers and she _groaned_ deep in the back of her throat— _god_ , that was erotic—and before I realised my feet had left the ground, I felt the warm stone under my thighs; she'd lifted me up to sit on the balustrade.

I broke away from her for a moment to glance down at the jagged cliffs and crashing waves below me. "Don't let me fall!" I told her, grabbing her hard shoulders as she kissed across my jaw, arms around my waist.

"Never," she murmured into my ear, and then kissed down my neck, and, _goodness_ , I could have _melted_. Her soft lips and wet tongue against my skin made me weak and I _sighed_ , my head lolling to the side and my eyes falling closed. It was a good thing she was holding onto me or I would have fallen backwards into the sea.

I was just hooking my legs around her waist and slipping my fingertips under the base of her shirt—she _did_ have a six-pack hidden under there after all—when a series of horrified gasps interrupted us.

We pulled away from each other, twisting towards the doorway.

Four faces were _staring_ at us—a family of four had brought their food to sit outside on the balcony. The mother, who was probably about my age, did _not_ look impressed.

Erm. We swallowed and disentangled ourselves from each other. "Sorry," I managed as we straightened our clothes.

While we were filing back inside looking ashamed of ourselves, Fareeha leant in towards my ear, her hand hovering by my waist. "The offer still stands to carry you upstairs," she whispered. I could hear the grin in her voice. "Can I buy you another drink…?"


	12. Pilot AU - Tracer(POV)xWidowmaker - SFW

Speed prompt, written in 69 (heh) minutes. Pilot AU.

* * *

"… _it's actually a pleasure to be delivering the weather for once! We're looking at a warm 21 Degrees Celsius with patchy cloud cover and North-Westerlies at a gentle 16 kilometres per hour. All in all, a nice day out! So get out of the bloody office for once, would you? Remind yourself what sunlight feels like and take the missus out for once. That's been today's forecast with BNR National, London's Premier Talkback Radio Station! And now, don't touch that dial, because have we got a show planned for you_ —"

I 'touched that dial', because I didn't actually need some old radio presenter to tell me what the weather was like: I could see the sunlight streaming in through the window of my little flat myself. It was _bee-youtiful_ outside, not the miserable sodding weather we usually enjoyed in London.

I could hardly believe my eyes, though: what a _top_ day for the maiden flight of the A448! I couldn't have imagined better weather for it. Knowing _my_ luck, I'd have expected I'd be I'd be landing the pouring bloody rain with cross-winds at 100kmph—I'd banked on it, actually. In _this_ weather, though, the plane would basically land itself without me, especially with the new landing system that had been developed since the 445. It was going to be _wicked_!

I rolled out from under my duvet and pulled on my uniform at the speed of light—maybe if I was lucky they'd let me poke around the A448 while it was being prepped?—and when I arrived at Gatwick there was yet another nice surprise for me: I spotted _Morrison_ in his full uniform and compact suitcase waiting by the counter!

Gosh, I hadn't seen him in _ages_ , what was _he_ doing here? Could that mean—? I didn't want to get my hopes up…

He gave me a big grin as the doors opened and I rushed up to him. "Hey, kid," he said gruffly, ruffling my hair (like it wasn't messy enough already!). "Guess who's your captain today?"

My chest _swelled up_ , I swear. So it _was_ true! "I thought Dupont was?"

He continued to grin. "Nope," he told me. "Dupont's been reassigned. You're stuck with me, I'm afraid."

 _'I'm afraid_ '? Morrison was basically my bloody _hero_ , he was the reason I was flying in the first place! " _Get out_!" I shout with excitement him, and then realised how loud I was being and quietened down. "It'll be just like old times!"

"Who are you calling 'old'?" he asked, and then chuckled. "And yep. You ready for media? Because there will be a stack of it after _you_ land."

I didn't miss how he'd said that: _you_. Dupont would have made me toe the line in terms of who did what in the cockpit, but Morrison wouldn't. He'd let _me_ do all the fun stuff; oh my _gosh_ this was going to be _bloody brilliant_!

"Who's the crew?" I wondered, thinking that I'd not had the chance to look at the list online since last night. There was a Polish girl I rather fancied who'd been temping as a stewardess, and since I was on a roll, I wondered if perhaps she'd be working on the same flight. Probably not, though, because how many goals could I kick in one day?

"Crew info should be loaded already," he said, and gestured at the screen in the corner.

I abandoned my suitcase and went to check it out, my eyes running over the flight list. I couldn't see The Polish girl's name anywhere. There was a 'cancelled' tag on one of the other stewardess' rosters, though… could that mean someone had called in sick and there was a vacancy?

I was tabbing through the system looking for who'd replaced her, and just as the name came up on the screen, a very smooth voice said behind me, "Whose name are you looking for, _chérie_?"

 _No_ …

My skin _prickled_ , and I hurriedly exited the menu before she could read that it was her own: _Amélie Lacroix._ Of course it would _her_ who filled in, not the cute Polish girl… "Not yours!" I said as I spun towards her.

She was much taller than me, and boy, did she lord it over me because of it. Especially in her expensive heels and her sleek stewardess uniform, with red lipstick on her pale lips and that hourglass figure of hers _and god damnit why did she have to be so attractive_? Ugh! She was _awful_! She never bloody left me alone on shifts and was _always_ finding all sorts of things I'd done wrong and making me feel _stupid_. Really, I didn't know what her bloody problem was!

A smile toyed at her lips; she looked amused. " _Tiens, tiens_ …. it seems we'll be working together again."

"Don't think I'm happy about that," I told her, having long since abandoned any attempt to be at all polite to her.

She looked me up and down like there was something wrong with my uniform. "See you on board," she told me in a voice that said, 'I can't wait to make your like _miserable_ ' and then she sashayed away like she thought she was the _Queen of sodding Britain_.

I wanted to _throw_ something at her. If I wasn't at work, I might have. Why did people like that exist?!

Well, that did it; so much for my 'good luck'! Even with the lovely weather and having Morrison as my captain, there was _no way_ this flight was going to be anything except bloody _miserable_. It wasn't like I could call in sick, though: I'd been desperate to fly this damn plane since it was announced three years ago.

I would just have to find a way to make sure this Amélie woman didn't _ruin_ it for me.


	13. Run, Little Mouse-Widowmaker(POV)xTracer

Speed prompt, written in 61 minutes. **Prompted on Tumblr: "Spiders never feel more alive during the kill, but after so long trying to hit a target that can't be touched, Widowmaker starts loving the chase."**

Please imagine this narrated in a French accent ;)

* * *

She's so tiny. So _fragile_. She buzzes around like a little mosquito just waiting to be caught in my web.

" _Ah, je te vois_ …" I whisper, spotting her crouching beside the payload. She's alone; this is going to be a piece of cake. I line up the shot, my sight hovering at the edge of the car as I wait patiently for it to turn the corner and expose her. Unfortunately, she shifts around the vehicle to keep it between us. …has she seen me?

 _Oh well,_ I think, mentally shrugging, I suppose it doesn't matter anyway, because she can't stay there forever. I shoot a venom mine in the car's path so she has to move.

I am perfectly still, perfectly focused, laying in wait for the _split second_ I'll have to shoot her when she leaves the safety of the payload. When the car passes the venom mine, though, it's untouched.

 _What…_? I lower my rifle, looking around the area with my eyes. How could she _possibly_ have—

"Psst, what you look at?" a cheerful voice says from beside me. She's so close I can feel her breath on my cheek, and I jump. By instinct I fire at her—of course—but in an instant she's vanished into thin air leaving nothing but the whooshing sound of the air closing on itself.

 _Pest_ , I think fervently, and grapple somewhere else to start the wait again.

* * *

The next time I cross paths with her, I've shot her entire team one by one, the _fools_. They're all big and lumbering, walking around in straight lines in the broad light of day. They were practically _begging_ for it.

Her, on the other hand: she is the opposite of those things. She darts around like a blowfly, first here, then there, and it takes great precision and great effort to follow her progress. I've never faced anyone like her.

I've followed her across rooftops for the entire hot zone before I find her standing at the edge of it, standing in a doorway. The door appears to be closed.

 _Got you,_ I think indulgently, raising the Widow's Kiss to peer through the sight.

And that's when the door opens to reveal her team—all revived—and all their weapons aimed _directly_ at me. And her? She is _grinning_. I feel my heart beating for once, and barely manage to make it out alive by grappling to safety.

After _that_ unfortunate failed mission, Talon stops telling me when she's defending our targets. This doesn't bother me at all, because I _love_ to try and find her.

Every time I am sent on a mission, I listen for the _whoosh_ of closing air and sound of her infernal _giggling_. Talon may not consider her a primary target, but _I_ do. I know what she is like and how skilled she is at avoiding death.

Not skilled enough to avoid me, though. Not forever. I will catch her.

* * *

It is not me who catches her first— _unfortunately_. I've flanked her to the control room she's defending, and I am ready, _so_ ready to kill her. Today is the day, I can _feel_ it.

I've nearly shot her three times. One of the times, the bullet grazed her shoulder and tore one of her straps (she looked so angry about that, it was such a _pleasure_ to listen to her cursing at me), but none of my bullets have killed her yet.

 _Yet._ But they will.

I watch her through the thin glass—as soon as I can see her head, I will pull the trigger.

 _Any moment now_ , I think, _any moment…_

Before I can, though, I hear the sharp _snap_! of a bear trap and her cry out in pain.

My rifle drops. …was that…?

I feel my heart beating in my chest again—it's so rare to feel that these days—as I grapple over to the doorway to peek inside.

 _It might be a trap_ , I tell myself, peeking around the corner. She _always_ tries to trap me, and—

It's not. One of my _fool_ teammates who has already got himself killed left an open trap in here, and she's triggered it. She's caught. She's can't move. It's like a wet dream to me: _this_ is the moment I've been waiting for.

She's just crouched there, clutching her leg where the electrified trap has snapped closed, with tears running down her cheeks from the pain and her Chronal Accelerator flickering from the current. When she sees me, she looks up. I can see the fear in her eyes.

My heart is beating, I feel the _blood_ coursing through my veins: this is it. This is like a _dream_ to me. I have long fantasised about this very moment.

"Looks like your time has finally run out," I tell her, raising my rifle before she can reach for her pistols. She can't blink away from me now.

My finger is squeezing the trigger, ready to fire a shot into her head when she says in a panicked voice, "Amélie, _please_ don't do this…"

When I fire, the bullet _misses_ her and buries itself in the computer behind her. It is incredible, I _never_ miss a shot like this.

I line up again. Her face fills up my whole zoom, and I can see every freckle on it. I can even see each line the panicked tears have drawn on her cheeks. I _cannot_ miss this shot.

I am ready to pull the trigger. I am ready to _kill_ her.

She doesn't move.

No more mosquito. No more blowfly, she is still. I don't have to jerk my rifle all over the place to track her. I don't struggle to zoom in on her. My heart isn't _pounding_ and adrenaline isn't _filling my veins_ as I narrowly avoid her tricks or her gunfire, and I'm not grappling all over the place to _finally_ get a good vantage point on her and—

And…

—and I lower my rifle.

This is _boring_.

This is not how she is supposed to die. I am supposed to shoot her from 300 metres through two buildings and while she is trying to hide behind a shield. _That_ is how she is supposed to die. _That_ is how I want to kill her.

Not like this.

I shoot the spring on the trap that's caught her so it shatters and frees her. She doesn't try and kill me—I knew she wouldn't, she has no stomach for cold blood. She just stands here, gaping at me like a frightened child.

Her face fills with hope when she looks down at the broken trap. It makes me feel uncomfortable.

" _Run_ , little mouse," I tell her. "Run away from the cat."

She doesn't look like she's going to run, she looks like she's going to _hug_ me. For a moment I am worried she will try.

If she touches me I _will_ kill her, I think, feeling my heart beating in my chest. No one has touched me since— Well, for a long time.

In the end, she doesn't. She closes her mouth, swallows, and then with a _whoosh_! she is gone.

* * *

The next time our paths meet, it's across a 100-metre chasm on an opposite cliff. She makes a stupid face at me through the zoom on my sight, and I have to pause to _roll my eyes_ before I line up the _perfect_ shot and wait.

I am going to get that little fly.

I am going to catch her.


	14. East End - Tracer (POV)xWidowmaker - SFW

Speed prompt, written in 68 minutes. **Prompted on Tumblr with: "Widowmaker appreciates good food and goes to high-end restaurants in fake ID's and uses untraceable credit cards, she picks a spot that's a little bit too close to where Lena lives to be a beliveable coincidence. A stalk-turned date ensues."** I did a bit of a twist on that.

* * *

It had been yonks since I'd been back home in London, and half the bloody city had grown an extra ten stories while I'd been gone. You'd think I'd be used to all that by now—what with all the time travel—but it was still jarring. There was also a gigantic new shopping centre right next to my flat on the East side as well which meant I had the great pleasure of watching some lady on an animated billboard shampoo her hair while I ate my breakfast... and my lunch, and my tea. I bet I was even going to end up have _dreams_ about 'smooth, full-bodied hair!' eventually.

Anyway, after all that advertising, and despite the fact that I didn't need smooth, full-bodied hair because I'd always lopped it all off, capitalism got too much for me and I ended up _in_ the shopping centre, checking out what sort of shops had opened there. I could always do with another pair of trousers, right? Although… having said that, more tops were what I _really_ needed. It was pretty difficult for me to find ones that looked alright with my Chronal Accelerator _and_ that actually fit underneath it, though, so I always ended up buying trousers and shoes instead.

I'd just ducked into a really posh shoe shop to take a peek at some boots that were probably _way_ too much money for me when I spotted some _really_ long, smooth hair that definitely didn't need extra body.

I knew that hair.

I knew the hourglass body attached to it, too—and the blue-tipped nose and blue-white, corpse-like pallor. She wasn't wearing her sprayed-on lycra uniform and pointing a gun at me this time, though. She was _shoe-shopping_ in East end.

What was _Widowmaker_ doing here?!

I may have ever so slightly _freaked the bloody hell out_ and recalled outside to the window, pressing my face against it to watch her.

My first thought was that she'd come to kill me. Of course she had, right? After all, why on earth would she be in _East_ London knowing I lived here unless it was to kill me? I watched her for ages before I was absolutely, positively, dead certain she had no idea I was here. I actually saw her _smile_ , and not in a creepy, evil I'm-about-to-top-you way, either. Apparently she _really_ liked those heels…?

It was _weird_. Totally and utterly weird. I felt like my Chronoal Accelerator was malfunctioning again and I'd been transported to some alternate universe where she hadn't been brainwashed and turned into a monster and was just a normal person again. Well, a normal person with a heart condition, anyway.

I followed her through a series of shops—boy, did _she_ seem to have a lot of money _,_ Talon must pay pretty well—and by the time she'd reached the last of the shops and headed out to the car park, she had so many bags I had no idea how she was managing them all.

I followed her out because I still couldn't work out what she was doing here; part of me was still a little bit worried that she _would_ pull a rifle on me the moment I let my guard down.

Her car was a bloody _Porsche_ —jet black, of course—and after she'd put all her bags in the boot, she scanned the car park around her. That was suspicious, wasn't it? She _must_ be up to something after all, otherwise why would she—

She took her top off.

That was—erm, alright, kind of unexpected, and— _whoa_. You know when you really shouldn't look at something, but you can't look away? _Yeah_ , that. She was _fit_.

I kept watching because I thought she was going to change into her Widowmaker uniform—I promise that's why—but she was just turning a nice blouse she'd bought in the right way and taking her sweet bloody time about it. She did at least have a bra on: one of those lacy ones that look very pretty but which itch like mad. She didn't look at all bothered by it, though.

 _I_ was bothered by it. Every time I pointed guns at her now I was going to be stuck picturing her in that bra; like I didn't cop a distracting eyeful every time I was face-to-face with her already.

 _Note to self,_ I thought, peeking through my fingers, _stop this immediately._ I considered duplicating myself five seconds ago and covering my own eyes so I could un-see it, except in my experience having two versions of myself at the same time caused more problems than it ever solved and I always ended up with two sets of memories instead of one and they had _really_ odd dreams about it later.

Once she had the blouse on, I completely ignored the 'stop' command to myself and followed her at a safe distance as she sashayed out of the car park. You know, just in case she was doing something evil after all.

She headed straight up the road to Greenhill Towers, the poshest restaurant for miles, which I knew for a fact had a whole lot of meeting rooms for rich people who wanted to do business in private.

 _I bet it's a meeting with Talon_ , I thought, and tried to follow her in.

I got stopped at the door. "Sorry," the host told me in a French accent as he looked me up and down like I might be local riff-raff. "You need a reservation to dine in _this_ establishment." From his tone of voice, what he _really_ meant was, 'you look too poor to eat here', and he was completely right.

"I'm not planning on _dining in this establishment_ ," I told him, maybe taking the piss just a little, "my— _friend_ just walked in here and I wanted to have a quick chat with her."

His face looked like he might just have smelt something horrible. " _You_ are friends with the Comtesse Mirelle Dupont?"

Comtesse Mir—I _scoffed_. "That is _rubbish_ ," I told him flat out. "She is _not_ a 'Comtesse'. Her name is Amelie Lacroix and I—"

"I saw her credit card myself, _Madame_ ," he said, in a voice which suggested he didn't want to address me with an honorific. "I know who she is, so if you _don't mind_ , perhaps you'd like to find a restaurant more to your—"

"Thanks, I actually _do_ mind," I told him sarcastically. I wasn't going to get past him walking like a normal person; I'd have to blink past later when he wasn't looking properly. I'd not walked outside for maybe a whole minute before another waiter came up to the haughty host and whispered to him.

The host took a great big sniff through the long nose he'd been looking down at me past and then beckoned me to come back.

 _Weird_. I did anyway.

He did _not_ seem too happy about what he was about to say. "Apologies about the mistake," he said stiffly, "it seems the Comtesse is expecting you."

Beyond him, at a table in the restaurant, _Widowmaker_ was looking _right at me_ , and not through a sight for one. She raised her wine glass slightly and then took a delicate sip from it, a smug little smile on her face.

That's when I noticed the table was set for two. There was a waiter there, holding a chair out for me.

My jaw _dropped_. You had to be _bloody_ kidding me…

The host cleared his throat. "Shall I take your coat?"


	15. East End 2 - Tracer(POV) x Widowmaker

Speed prompt, writing in 119 minutes. I wrote this as a sequel to the previous one because of all the dire threats I got if I didn't continue it.

* * *

Widowmaker—she _hated_ being called 'Amélie' now—watched me smugly from behind her wine as the posh waiter seated me, insisted on laying a serviette on my lap, and then forced me to pick a wine from his horribly expensive wine list despite me telling him that I _hated_ wine.

It had to be a trap. "What's all _this_ about, then?" I asked as soon as he was gone, fully expecting her to lean in and be all ' _and now I will tell you how I'm going to kill you_ ' or the like.

She swirled her wine. "It's a little game I like to play."

Ugh, could she have _been_ any more creepy? "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's bad manners to play with your food?" I asked her, before I realised how that sounded.

Her eyebrows went up. "'My food'?"

 _Bollocks_. I went red. I _hated_ that she could say so much with a smirk. "Well, you're always calling me a _blowfly_ and a _mosquito_ , and so I kind of… I sort of meant that…" She just sat there looking smug and letting me languish in my embarrassment. Well, I wouldn't let her. I pulled myself together and cleared my throat. " _Anyway_ , I'll not be part of some messed up _game_ of yours, I've got _enough_ problems with Overwatch being in the papers again for—"

"Too late."

We had to stop for a moment because the waiter came back and spend bloody _ages_ pouring my wine and fussing over it and making me taste it before he filled the damn glass and buggered off. I sniffed it: _yuck_.

She had another sip of her own. "Frankly, I'm disappointed in you," she told me regretfully, "you took a lot longer than I expected to find me. We were in almost the same shops for at least an hour and you were _completely_ oblivious..."

"Well, pardon me for not being _a trained assassin_ and expecting danger in broad daylight a shopping centre!" I told her, wondering if I should chance the bread or if it was filled with poison and would be the last thing I ever did. "How should I know you were expecting me to find you and follow you through all the shops and out to your… out to your…"

It… suddenly occurred to me she'd have known I was watching when she was changing by her car.

"To my…?" she prompted me oh-so innocently.

I shut my jaw. I'd had it with her. "Listen here, _Widowmaker_ ," I said, jabbing my finger in the air towards her, "if you're going to take a shot at me, why don't you just bloody well do it? Or is this all because you know you can't kill me, so you're just going to settle for messing about with me and driving me absolutely mental?"

She looked unmoved. "While that _is_ a pleasant side effect of having dinner with you," she told me impassively, "I thought that since we're so often on the same objective these days, it might be wise of us to figure out a way to work together without always trying to _kill_ each other."

"And you plan to do that how, exactly? By driving me mad and/or _actually_ killing me so it's no longer a problem?"

She gestured at the set table. "I thought we could have a nice dinner."

Well, now I _knew_ she was up to something. That was bloody ridiculous: eating 'a nice dinner' with someone who'd been actively trying to kill me for _years_. "You're mad if you think I'm going to eat anything with you," I told her, just in case she thought she could poison me that easily.

She shrugged. "Eh, suit yourself," she said, and then very elegantly cut her bread, buttered it and took a delicate bite. I wondered if perhaps the whole spider-conditioning thing made her immune to poison that would kill me? I didn't plan on finding out.

"I may not have my guns with me," I warned her, "but I _am_ wearing my Chronal Accelerator, so if you try anything, you're not going to get away with it."

She paused mid-chew to give me a look. Then, while continuing to chew her bread, leaning beside her and putting her handbag on the table. Calmly, she opened it and showed me what was inside: lipstick, a purse and nothing but other random bits and bobs, including bobby pins. "No Widow's Kiss," she said, closing it again, "at least, not in the bag…" Enjoying herself, she locked eyes with me.

Was she… ?

 _No_ , definitely not. Gosh, Lena, of _course_ not, hah! Maybe she wanted me to try and guess where she'd hidden it? Maybe it was all part of her ' _liddle game_ '.

Well, I was going to find it. I leant sideways and checked under the table, but there was only a pair of really long legs in really expensive heels down there. I then blinked over to where I'd seen our coats hung to pat hers down. Nothing. I checked a plant near our table, under a couple of _other_ tables—the patrons seated there weren't too happy about that, actually—and then stood in the centre of the restaurant, trying to figure out where she'd hide a gun that she could access quickly.

She watched the whole thing with a kind of detached amusement. It was maddening. What was she playing at?

"Can I _help_ you?" the host asked me in a very haughty voice, I think to warn me I was disturbing everyone.

"Only if you can tell me where she's hidden her gun," I told him flatly. I wasn't playing her game.

The look he gave me… Instead of talking to me, he just looked across at Widowmaker. She sighed and waved her hand dismissively. " _Pauvre petite,_ she's delusional."

He sniffed at me. "That explains a lot," he said, and then went to escort me over to the table to sit down, but I wasn't having any of it.

I recalled back to the place I'd been before and probably scared the life out of him. "Look, I don't know what you're up to," I told her, "but this is _weird_."

"And _this_ is a fine dining establishment," the host told me, recovering much faster from seeing me blink that I'd expected—maybe he was a Talon operative, too? "So either you calm down and sit down, or I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave." He didn't seem too afraid of that option, actually.

"But I—"

" _No_ ," he told me, talking over me and taking me by the shoulders. "If you won't be seated, please take a moment to get some fresh air and don't come back in until you can behave." Despite the fact I was protesting, he walked me outside and deposited me on the most expensive-looking balcony I'd ever seen.

The was a clunk behind me as he closed the door.

Well, at least there wasn't enough furniture out here to hide a gun in, anyway.

I peered over the balcony, torn between the smart thing to do which would be to escape before she could kill me, and the silly thing, which was stay and trying and figure out what the bloody hell was going on with her. Unfortunately, I didn't think my brain was going to win this one. I was just having a good argument with it when I heard the clunk of the door again and jumped.

When I turned, _Widowmaker_ was there. And she was alone, and she was _looking_ at me with that intent I'm-about-to-murder-you expression I recognised.

Oh, no!

My heart started to race, and I glanced over the edge. _I could probably make that jump_ , I thought. I might need to in a moment.

She began to advance on me.

Oh, gosh. Oh, golly gosh. I glanced down again. Should I do it now? "Stay back!" I told her, and then tried to pose like Genji had taught me. I wasn't very good at it.

She gave me the _oddest_ look and then _laughed_. It was a cruel sound. "Foolish girl," she told me in a tone I recognised. "You think _that_ would stop _me_?"

No, I didn't think that. But it was better than just standing here looking terrified. So was blinking, wasn't it? I _did_ blink—I aimed behind her—but unfortunately she knew me too well and in an instant I was swung up against the balcony wall and there was a sharp _crack_ as my Chronal Accelerator collided with it.

 _No_! Gasping, I looked down at it; it as flickering as it rebooted, and when I tried to blink, I couldn't. She was already standing over me. I tried to push her away, but she'd always been just that little bit stronger.

So this was it: this was the moment where she tried to murder me. "I _knew_ this was a trap!"

She chuckled once. "Yes," she said ominously, "but you're mistaken about what I want to catch you for."

While I was trying to figure out what she meant by that, she stepped up against me and pinned me with her hips. Her whole body, right up against mine. And she mightn't have been wearing her uniform, but what was _was_ wearing was tight enough that I could feel what was underneath it, especially what was underneath her blouse. Suddenly, all I could think of was that lacy bra I'd seen her in as I locked eyes with her. There was _hunger_ in them.

W-What on—?

She leant her lips in towards mine at a glacial pace, eyes open, _watching_ me. When her lips touched mine they were soft—god, so soft—but cool.

I was too shocked to even move. Any second, I expected to feel a knife in my stomach or a bullet in my head, or something—she was just trying to distract me, right…?—but it didn't seem to be happening. What was happening was that she kissed down my neck and got _that place_ that is guaranteed to make me completely useless, and it did, my knees were weak and my mouth was… wow, open? And my hands were trailing over her waist completely of their own accord and sliding down to the seat of her skirt to that round, firm, incredibly sexy _bloody hell what was I doing_?!

I pushed her away from me, _gasping_. We were both breathing heavily and there was a kind of rosy hue to her cheeks for once. She was going to dive right back in on me like a spider to its prey, I could see it in her eyes, and I was _soooooo_ incredibly not going to be able to deal with that at all. I couldn't shake the awful feeling it was a trap.

Panicking, checked my Accelerator (no flicker) and blinked clean off the bloody balcony and probably to my death. Somehow I made it across to another rooftop instead, and before I _took the hell off_ , I looked back to see if she was following me.

She wasn't. She was leaning casually on the railing of the balcony, cleaning up lipstick at the corner of her mouth with a thumb. She saw me watching and slowly, sensually _licked_ it.

Did she just… I _gaped_ at her. _Christ all-bloody-mighty_ , I could not deal with this. I could _especially_ not deal with how much she was enjoying it or how close I'd gotten to just going for it with her on the balcony. Argh!

With her lipstick still all over my face, I took off across the rooftops as fast as my Accelerator could carry me.


	16. DNR - Mercy(POV)xWidowmaker (xTracer)

Speed prompt, written in 65 minutes. From a Tumblr prompt by nightprince: **"In the heat of battle, Widowmaker is revived by Mercy and a nearby Tracer never expected to hear the voice of Amelie begging someone to kill her."**

I did a twist on this one.

* * *

There are some things medical school can't prepare you for.

I came out of college, almost half the age of all my colleagues, bright-faced and filled with hope about all the lives I was going to save and the changes I was going to make in the world. Earth would be a better place when I was done with it, I decided. I used to gaze up at my ceiling at night and imagine all the cures I would find and all the technology I would develop that would take millions and millions of lives.

No child would even suffer like I did again: because I wouldn't let their parents die.

I got a reality check the first time a mother of four young children died at my hands because I was unable to figure out a way to save her. The next, when a three year old bled to death on my operating table while I _desperately_ searched for the severed artery and found it too late. It was surreal. In only twenty minutes, a plump, giggling toddler had become cool and glassy-eyed, dead forever. One beautiful life with a beautiful future snuffed out.

I slowly learnt that sometimes you do everything you can for someone— _everything_ —and still they end up cold and still in front of you, and all you can hear is the wailing of their families when you stop trying to revive them.

When the Swiss Overwatch facility blew up with all of my instant healing and advanced revival technology destroyed within it, I fell to the floor and _wept_. I _wept_ for all the children who were going to lose parents that I could have saved if only the facility hadn't been destroyed. I wept for that lost dream I had of changing the world.

And even though I've endured all of this, even though I'm approaching 40 and I've been a doctor for nearly 20 years, there are _still_ somethings that medical school didn't prepare me for.

Like Amélie.

She hates being called that, I know, but she's still Amélie to me. I still look at her and see the face of the woman I used to go to the ballet with in my 20s, whose husband was a beautiful, open man with a warm laugh, a kind smile and a brilliant mind. It would be hard enough to revive her anyway because it's always difficult to work on a friend, but that's not why I struggle with it.

Not at all.

Today, I see her out of the corner of my eye, grapping up to a ledge above the objective. She's hardly raised her rifle before an _enormous_ GPS-guided spear soars through the air and impales her, knocking her off the ledge.

She makes eye contact with me for a split second as she falls, mouth open in shock, hands clasping uselessly at the spear through her middle. My heart _stops_. I'm not sure if it's her voice or my voice that I hear crying out.

I'm over there in an instant, pulling out the spear (to a _torrent_ of dark, partially oxygenated blood that begins to pool around her), and her hands push weakly at me. " _Please_ ," she mumbles. " _Please…_ "

Patients are always disoriented when they're in hypovolemic shock. _It's just that_ , I tell myself, charging my staff. _She's just in shock_. "It's alright," I tell her. "I'm here."

She'll be unconscious in a few seconds. "No," she says, her speech slurring. "Angela, no. _Stop._ " The familiar sound of her saying my real name _does_ make me stop for a moment. She _brightens_. "Please, just let me die," she tells me. "Let me finally be the nothing that I am."

God. I feel sick to my stomach. I try to speak but no sound comes out of my mouth, all can I think of is the sound of her beautiful, musical laugh—a sound I haven't heard in years—and her the way her face looked when she'd come rushing me to me in the middle of the night to tell me that Gérard had asked her to marry him. Our arms around each other as we hugged. The joyful tears that filled her eyes as she told me all their plans for the future.

There are tears in her eyes now, too. And in mine.

"I just want to be with him," she murmurs, "I just want this nightmare to be over…"

There is _no chance in hell_ that I will grant her that wish. Not while I know our Amélie is still in there, trapped, beaten, terrified and horrified by what her own hands have done. Reconditioning fades over time, and I will wait _as long_ as I need to for her. I'll be here for her when she returns.

I break my code of medical ethics and ignore her wish, charging her full of nanoparticles to revive her.

When the glow fades she's still lying there, eyes fluttering open. It takes her a moment to orient herself, and in that moment I always hope I'll see a smile, rosy cheeks— _Amélie_. But I don't see a smile. Her skin is still cyanotic, and she just looks _disappointed_. She pulls herself to stand anyway.

I try to joke. "No thanks necessary," I tell her as brightly as I can.

She _scowls_. "Why would I thank someone for providing a service I don't want?" she asks bitterly, gives me one final hard look, and then grapples off somewhere above.

I stand there for a moment, still feeling sick. So, sick, and trapped in a memory of us laughing together.

It's then that I spot Lena standing nearby, clearly watching us. God, her expression… She shakes her head silently at me—at what she's just seen?—and turns to hide her face before she disappears. I'm not sure what's stung her more: that her friend, that the woman she used to look up to and idolise wants to die, or that despite Lena's best efforts and her beautiful heart, that she may never replace Gérard.

With both of them gone, it's silent. It's just me standing in a pool of blood, feeling sick.

My patient is alive—I should be overjoyed, but I'm not.

Medical school taught how to fix people. How to patch them up, how to bring them back to health, and how to help people live long, full lives with the people they love. It taught me how to talk to children, how to ease old bones and how to use new technology to improve outcomes so people can keep doing the things they love. But it could _never_ prepare me for what I've faced.

It never taught me how to deal with someone I love with all my heart _begging_ me to let them die.


	17. When the War is Over - Mercy(POV)xPharah

Written in 4 hours.

 **Please note this chapter contains some sexual situations. Skip if that's not your thing :)**

Set after 'No Man Left Behind' and 'Coming Home'

* * *

Fareeha _did_ carry me upstairs after all. I wasn't as drunk as I was letting her believe I was—I would have been quite capable of navigating the stairs myself—but I'd been eyeing those muscles of hers all night and wondering if she was strong enough to carry me without her Raptora IV. So, when I did actually genuinely tripped on a chair leg and she caught me before I fell, it seemed like a great opportunity to declare, "Oh, dear. I think that's it for me tonight!"

Her eyes twinkled. She knew what I was doing. "I think I made an offer to help you get there?" Then, in one clean movement, she quite literally swept me off my feet.

I shrieked with laughter; she _was_ strong enough! "Don't drop me!"

She almost looked insulted. "I've carried soldiers, so unless you've got titanium parts under that turtleneck, I'm going to be fine."

"No, just skin under here," I told her with a smile, looping my wrists around her neck to help support myself in her arms. "All skin."

We locked eyes again, and I watched her cheeks go a little pink under that deep tan of hers. I knew what she was thinking, and seeing it on her face was _hot_. She cleared her throat. "I was going to say 'looks like we're safe, then', but I think I'm pretty far from safe."

Oh, god, so was I. Those strong legs of hers that were walking easily up these stairs like she _wasn't_ carrying a 60kg woman in her arms… I was having all sorts of unsavoury thoughts about her pulling me into her lap to straddle them. Pulling off my top. Cupping my breasts. I think by the time we reached my room I may have been blushing a little myself, and not because of the alcohol.

She had to put me down so I could unlock the door. Then she stood a little awkwardly at it, clearly not sure if she was welcome in or not. "Erm," she said, looking uncomfortable. "Sleep well."

I scoffed. "Oh, don't be ridiculous!" I told her, and pulled her inside.

What I _should_ have done as a good host was to offer her another glass of wine, perhaps invite her to enjoy the lovely view from my balcony, and engage in some light conversation before we eventually ended up in my bed.

I've never been a particularly good host, though, and after all those illicit fantasies I'd been having on the stairs, what I _actually_ did was immediately pull her down to kiss me. She _groaned_ into my mouth and pulled me flat against her. I could feel her hard stomach against mine, how firmly she was kissing me back and when I peeked through my eyelashes, I could see her dark brow was knit in concentration. God, it was hot. _She_ was hot, and we were finally alone.

There was no one to hide from here, was there? I began to unbutton her shirt; I wanted at that stomach. She let me, releasing me momentarily to shrug it off. The warm, ripping muscles under my fingertips were too inviting for just my hands—I stopped frantically kissing her for a moment to bend and kiss her stomach. Her muscles bunched underneath my lips; she gasped. "Careful, I'm ticklish!"

I had to laugh at that; I never would have thought someone so surly would be ticklish. I teased her a little by running my fingertips lightly over my skin until she squirmed helplessly and tried to catch my hands. She smiled so much I could see all her teeth; she had a beautiful smile. I kissed it again.

It was dizzying kissing her while I was tipsy; I loved the sensation of my head swimming and her lips moving against mine as I felt like I was falling through space. She wasn't as drunk as I was, though; she wouldn't let me fall. It was like flying with her, right here. I felt so safe in her arms.

Her hands were shyer than mine; I had to guide them to my hips, my breasts—even when I placed them there she was hesitant, like she wasn't sure what she was allowed to do.

I pulled away from her lips to whisper, "Don't be so shy," in her ear and to pull off my own turtleneck and toss it somewhere beside the door.

Her eyes went straight to my breasts—I was wearing a new pearl-coloured bra, and I suppose they probably looked quite nice—and she exhaled forcefully as she drank it all in. I watched her ribs pulse as she breathed heavily, her lips automatically parting. She couldn't look away. "You're drunk," she told me, and she was right. "I feel like it's my duty to protect you against people like me right now…"

I laughed once, my fingertips creeping up underneath her black sports bra. "Yes, well, I'm not supposed to have private relationships with patients," I told her. "It's a terrible breach of _my_ duty."

"What are we doing, then?" she asked, still staring at my breasts. There was an urgency about her, like an overfilled balloon on the brink of exploding.

"I don't know," I told her, beyond caring about it. I'd lived through too many battles and wars to think _this_ was something serious. "But if you'd keep doing it, I'd appreciate that." While she was watching me, I reached behind my back and undid my bra, letting it fall away from my breasts.

The balloon in her finally popped, and she scooped me up in her arms, dumping me on my back on the bed and climbing on top of me. In a second she had a mouthful of one of my breasts, her dark lips a sharp contrast against my pale pink nipples. Hardly able to breathe, myself, I watched her lips and tongue moving on them and felt the hum of her throat as she groaned at the pleasure of it. She couldn't get enough of them, and watching her struggle to try was _so erotic_. I was jelly in her hands.

I wanted her mouth all over me. I wanted to listen to the sounds she'd make if mine was all over hers. I wanted to listen to her dry, _sexy_ voice. "Say something," I whispered to the top of her head.

She released my breast to look up at me. She was grinning. "Something."

I put a hand on my forehead, sighing heavily. We needed to work on that sense of humour of hers. "Just talk. I want to listen to your voice."

She finished snickering and kissed up my across my collarbone so her lips arrived at my ear. "Alright." I hummed with anticipation about all the dirty, illicit things she might be about to say in that delicious accent, but what she _actually_ said was, "I know I'm a soldier. I know what I do is fight and that's my job. But I don't want to fight forever, I want a happily ever after."

I opened my eyes. I hadn't been expecting that. Suddenly, I was reminded that I was about to have sex with a close friend and colleague—someone I actually cared quite a lot about—and not just someone I'd picked up in a bar. "How do you mean?"

She made a neutral noise. Her breath tickled my ear as she kept speaking. "I want all the wars to be over because we won them. And then I want to live in peace somewhere pretty, and I want to have a family again. A real family."

By her saying it right now, the implication was so loud it was almost as if she'd actually said it: _and if we do this, I want you to know that that's what I'm looking for with you_.

I'd never expected it of her. To be honest, I'd never even expected to have a family at all; not that I was even sure I still _could_ have one, with all of the medical experiments I'd done on myself. I could never have one while I was fighting and putting my life at risk, anyway. I couldn't do that to my children after what happened to my own parents. But if the tensions and wars were over…?

But for a moment, it painted such a beautiful picture in my mind: mountains; a tiny house in the foothills. Smoke in a chimney, a table set for four. Fareeha singing in Arabic and chopping firewood outside in gumboots, and me in my little home lab, working on something while the children scribbled pictures on their tablets. Peace at last; a family, a _real_ _family_ at last. I could barely remember what that felt like, to feel _part_ of people like that. To have people feel part of me.

Unexpectedly, it brought tears to my eyes. I tried to blink them away. "That's beautiful."

She was silent for a moment, her lips dipping to my neck and kissing me there. My damp eyelashes fell shut, and I wrapped my arms around her neck. Eventually, she said, "I'm sorry. You were probably expecting me to say something sexy."

I was, but now that she'd said it, I couldn't imagine anything more perfect than sharing a wish for the future with her. It _was_ sexy, in a way. Not in a clothes-tearing-off-hips-grinding way, but in a subtler, more gentle way: I _liked_ that picture. I wanted to be part of that dream; to give myself to her. I want to listen to the sounds I elicited from her as we made love, and I wanted her to take me somewhere else, somewhere far away. To a place where everything was beautiful and no one suffered anymore.

In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to promise her she could have her dream, and that at least one of her dreams could finally come true. "Maybe one day we can…" I told her, hearing the waver in my voice.

Her eyes softened and she cupped my jaw with a kind of desperation that I'd rarely seen in her. "Don't say that if you don't mean it." I think her voice was harsher than she'd intended it to be.

I'd seen enough pain to not want to cause it in people myself. "I never do."

Her breath caught in her throat and then she _kissed_ me. She kissed me with all of her body and all of her soul, and I felt like we might already be in that beautiful little cottage in the mountains. Our war might already be over.

At some point her bra sports bra came off and she lay on top of me, chest to chest, her hard stomach and soft breasts such a contrast against my skin. We kicked out jeans off, too: wriggling out of our underwear and climbing under the covers of my bed, our legs intertwining and our hands exploring each other. I loved how our breasts fell together; I love how the contrast of her dark skin and my light skin looked as I peered down between us. Her very dark nipples and my pale ones; the small tuft of black hair between her legs and the white-blonde of mine.

It wasn't long before I began to wonder how she tasted and began to imagine finding out, and I lay her on her back, kissing down her body towards that black I'd seen earlier.

She stopped me. "Stay here," she murmured, lifting me back up her until we were giving each other big, open kisses again.

I leant away from a moment. "But I want to…" I glanced down.

In answer, she took one of my hands and guided it between her legs. "Like this," she told me, and then put a hand on either side of my jaw to kiss me.

The skin between her legs was warm, and as I pressed downwards, deeper into it, I realised how wet she was. She pressed her hips up into my hand as I began to draw slow, lazy circles against her—and the _sounds_ she was making…

I could feel her eyelashes fluttering against my cheeks and when I opened my eyes, she was watching me.

 _You're so beautiful_ , I thought, as our mouths moved together. 'Beautiful' felt like such an empty word, though; it wasn't enough for what she was. In my head, I could hear her valiantly telling me, ' _I will protect the innocent_!' and I could remember the completely earnest expression she had as she told me that. She meant it with every fibre of her being, and 'beautiful' wasn't a strong enough word for her.

As the circles I was making on her got faster, her breath got shorter; her kisses more erratic and eventually she could hardly move her mouth at all. She watched me, mouth open, her hands on my cheeks. They could have been anywhere; groping my breasts, feeling the shape of my hips or cupping my ass, but they were on either side of my face as she gazed into my eyes. She wanted me to be right there with her, and I was, _I was_. Even though she could barely move her mouth I kissed at it anyway, her breath hot and fast against my lips.

Her hips pressed against my hand. Her legs kicked at the covers, tangling them. Her thick muscles shook and her body tensed and then she was _crying out_ against my lips, holding my face against hers, her eyes never moving from mine. It was like _music_ hearing those sounds; I was smiling into her lips. I _loved_ seeing her strong body like this; I _loved_ experiencing the other things she could do with it. I loved being part of this side of her.

Soon, her breath slowed and her body relaxed and she was kissing me again; gentle kisses. Nuzzling me. Kissing my cheeks and chin, with her arms wrapped tightly around my back.

I was still smiling, and she pulled away for a moment to observe it. It made her smile, too. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," I told her automatically, and then laughed. "Well, yours…!"

"No, _yours_ ," she corrected me with a grin, and like a true combat professional, flipped me over onto my back in a clean movement, and then spent a minute or two with her hands holding my breasts together so she could bury her face in them. I laughed at her enthusiasm, but it quickly faded as she released them and kissed down along the centre of my stomach until my bare legs were over her shoulders and her face was between them.

She didn't put her mouth to me straight away, though, no: she kissed the inside of my thighs, breathed warm air across all my exposed skin down there, and she _watched_ me. Those dark eyelashes and that Eye of Horus tattoo, staring up at me, revelling in my vulnerability. It was _sexy_. Then, she slowly lowered her mouth against my lips and—

— _God_. I think I did something embarrassing like groan her name, I'm sure I did. I could barely look down my body because she was looking up mine, and just the sight of her dark lips against me, her black hair falling against my white skin and her _looking_ up at me— _god_ , it was too much. It was too much. That, and the sight and _feeling_ of her tongue swirling around—I had to close my eyes, it was too intense.

Even with my eyes closed, I could barely manage. My skin was _on fire_ , her lips felt like silk and when her mouth began to move rhythmically against me, it was all I could do to take handfuls of the blankets around up and not _cry out_ loudly enough to disturb other guests.

In the middle of this, in the middle of trying not to fall completely apart into a writhing, shouting mess at her lips, I felt one of her hands creep up the bed and find mine. When it did, she laced our fingers together, her thumb stroking the side of my hand.

It was such a small gesture, but I found it so touching. It took me back to that place I'd pictured before; that cottage. Our happily ever after, and—and just the thought of lying on _our_ bed, with _our_ patchwork quilt, _our_ bedside tables and birds someone outside _our_ window—I couldn't—

—us making love there, in peace, our suffering over and—it was beautiful, it was so beautiful. My chest _swelled_ with that feeling, with— _god_ , with _her_ and _us_ —her looking up at me, just like she was now, and—

—and then I—

—and then _my_ legs were shaking and I was _begging_ her not to stop and _begging_ her to keep going, just a little bit longer, just a little bit longer—

—and then it was _my_ voice crying out, _my_ hand cupping her cheek as her mouth moved against me and _my_ body curling towards her and writhing around on the bedsheets.

When I lay still, she stopped, kissing back up my body before wiping her mouth on the blankets and kissing my lips. She hovered there for a moment, propped over me as we kissed, before she moved to lie beside me, gentle fingertips brushing my fringe away from my face.

"I've want to do that for a long time," she quietly confessed.

I chuckled. "Yes, well, I've wanted you to do that for a rather long time, too," I told her brightly.

She smiled, but it looked wistful. It was a moment before she spoke. "You were crying before."

My smile faded, and I swallowed. "Oh, it's nothing to worry about."

She didn't press me further, but she did kiss me again, slowly and carefully. I turned towards her, our spent bodies and warm skin falling together again. I loved how it felt being naked with her.

After a few minutes, she lay back again, giving me a lazy smile. "Don't you dare break my heart," she told me with a deceptively casual tone.

I scoffed. "I'm a doctor," I told her with a smile. "I mend hearts, I don't break them."

She rolled her eyes at me, and we lay there together for the rest of the night; kissing, talking, dozing, sometimes. When we'd climbed the stairs I'd expected not much more than a roll in the hay with her, but I'd come out with something else entirely.

With a piece of her heart and soul, and, quite unexpectedly, a dream—a fantasy—for what our future might hold when our fight was finally over.


	18. Deserters - Pharah (POV)

Written in 28 minutes, and based on my horrible, agonising experience of competitive Overwatch grouped with random players...

* * *

Tracer had only been sped around the corner a fraction of a second ago before we all heard the sound of a panicked scream and in an instant, she was back in front of us, wide-eyed and panting.

"Um, so," she said, smoothing her suddenly very tussled hair and giggling nervously, "I don't want to alarm anyone, but there are _loads_ of turrets just around there."

Mercy checked a graze on her arm. "Define 'loads'? We've come up against turrets before."

I agreed with her. "I'm not afraid of them," I said with a grin, patting my trusty rocket launcher. " _They_ should be afraid of _me_."

Tracer laughed again; it was a high-pitched, panicked sound that ending in, ' _Yeah_. Trust me guys. When I say 'loads', I mean 'loads'. Like, 'I couldn't carry enough bombs for that in a million years'-loads."

Our two suspicious tag-alongs, Junkrat and Roadhog, glanced at each other. Junkrat, the skinny Australian man decorated from head-to-toe with grenades and explosives like ornaments on a Christmas Tree suddenly looked interested. "We'll _I'm_ probably carrying enough," he said, and then went to take a peek around the corner. "Let's take a little looksee at this and see what's we're— _JESUS EFFING—_!"

He leapt back around the corner so quickly he fell over his peg-leg and all his grenades spilt out all over the ground around him. "Okay, so, I don't think even this brute here—" he patted his colleague's round stomach while he collected his arsenal, "—could carry enough explosives for those. Well, I guess that's it, then. Looks like that computer-woman-thing won't be getting upgraded or whatever it is we're doing. Oh, well! What do you say, big guy? I bet there's somewhere that sells some killer nachos around here."

His monstrous friend grunted in agreement and they both turned to walk away.

I couldn't believe that they were—" _Hey_!" I shouted at them. "We have a contract to deliver on!"

Tracer blinked in front of them, leaning on Roadhog's stomach. "Oi, where do you think _you're_ going? You signed on the dotted line just like the rest of us did! And, besides, Athena needs that code!"

Roadhog very gently picked her up and placed her aside, and kept walking.

Junkrat said over his shoulder, "Look, I'm all for some fireworks, but being blown into smithereens myself isn't what I signed up for. It's just a piece of code, who cares? There's plenty more where that came from."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I fired a rocket probably a little too close to them, enough to startle them. " _Cowards_ ," I hissed. In the army, they'd be _shot_ for running away! They didn't so much as shrug, and I was lining up another canon which may or may not have been intended to knock them—

A gentle hand pushed my launched down. Mercy. That same hand touched my shoulder afterwards as she said quietly, "It's not worth it, Fareeha."

I grit my teeth. "They're _deserting_ us!"

"And starting a fight with them isn't going to help us now."

She was right but— _ugh_. Ugh! I _knew_ that bringing that rag-tag pair along with us could only spell trouble! I bet that when Overwatch was in its prime, they _never_ had to deal with _deserters_ who _abandoned_ their units right in the heat of battle!

Tracer had walked slowly back to us. "We'll just have to try and do it ourselves," she said, blowing her fringe. "Maybe I can take out a couple of them?" She didn't look very confident.

I could probably do another one or two myself— _maybe_ three if Mercy was boosting me. "How many are there?"

Tracer swallowed. "Six. And six people manning them."

Good god. I grimaced. That would be tough even with a full team.

"Oh, dear," Mercy said mildly.

I closed my jaw. Tracer was right, though. We didn't have a choice. We'd come this far, and Athena needed that code. We'd just have to face their entire defence team with just the three of us and hope for the best.

I reloaded my rockets. "Let's do this."


	19. This is Your Captain Speaking 2

Speed run, written in 78 minutes. Set after "This is Your Captain Speaking".

* * *

Morrison was waiting to board with me. There was a big media circus just outside security and we needed to smile for cameras and walk around shaking posh people's hands for what felt like hours before they _finally_ let us onto the plane and into the cockpit.

The cockpit itself looked much the same as the 445, but everything looked brand-bloody-new and had been polished to a high shine. It felt like a museum exhibit rather than a real live working cockpit. I was just sitting in the co-pilot's seat and orienting myself to the changes in layout I'd seen in the demo (which I'd watched so many times I could quote word-for-word), when Morrison tapped me on the shoulder. "Hey, kid, what do you think you're doing?"

I completely fell for it. I was certain I'd done something horribly wrong, and I was staring up at him, absolutely mortified, as he said, "You're in the wrong seat," with a grin.

B-But this was where the co-pilot's seat was in the 445, and the demo didn't say anything about moving the co-pilot's chair to—

He was _grinning._ I suddenly realised what that grin meant; there were only two seats in here. Oh! "I can sit in the _captain_ 's seat?!"

"I know how much you've been wanting to fly this thing," he told me. "So fly it, Captain." He saluted me.

I may have accidentally jumped right out of my chair and quite literally bounced around the cockpit before giving him a big bear hug. "I won't crash it! Promise!"

He laughed, patting my back. He was used to me by now. "I think it would take a lot of skill _to_ crash this baby," he told me as I let him go. "Just make sure you give all the walking wallets we have on board a smooth flight that doesn't spill their thousand-dollar champagnes."

"Aye-aye!" I said, giving him a little salute back.

While he went to double-check something with ground staff, I surveyed _my_ cabin with a big grin on my face until my eyes rested on the most important seat in this whole glorious creation.

The captain's seat.

Butterflies in my stomach, I walked over to it and put my hand on the high headrest. I was about to _sit_ in this thing, an in an A448! Piloting my first commercial flight in an A448 felt like losing my virginity to a bloody movie star or something. I could hardly believe it!

I slowly lowered myself into it and put my hands on the control wheel. Out the window, I could see enormous crowds of people all gathered around the airport to watch the maiden flight; _my_ maiden flight. They'd all be watching as the wheels left the ground for the first time and this beautiful plane _soared_ through the air at my hands. Honestly, I felt bloody brilliant; the only thing that was missing was a crown on my head.

"May I check your boarding pass?" a very dry voice in a very French accent said from behind me. "I think you are perhaps in the wrong seat."

My mood immediately soured: Amélie! "You're not supposed to be in here!" I twisted in my seat to glare at her.

She was in here, though, leaning heavily on one of those full hips with her arms crossed. Silhouetted against the open door of the cockpit, she looked a sinister mix of horribly evil and incredibly bloody sexy. She knew it, too. "It seems we're both somewhere we're not supposed to be, then," she said. "I suggest you return to your allocated seat for take-off."

Ugh. "Well, I suggest you _get stuffed_ ," I told her flatly. "I actually mean that. You're not allowed in the cockpit."

She took one full step closer to me, raising her eyebrows in challenge. "What are you going to do, chérie? Call security?" Just to illustrate how ridiculous that would sound to them, she batted her eyelashes innocently and asked in a faux-professional voice, "I really am to disturb you, _First Officer_ , would you like tea while you're waiting for the captain to return?"

I wouldn't like _anything_ from her, especially while she was deliberately trying to get on my nerves, and I opened my mouth to tell her exactly that as rudely as possible, but then another shadow appeared behind her.

"Hello, Amélie!" That was Morrison's voice; he sounded… _pleased to see her_? What on…?

He _knew_ this monster?

He apparently did, becacuse just to hammer than point home, he put a hand on her back and gave her the _double-cheek kiss_ French people did when they knew each other really well. "What a blast from the past it is to have _you_ on board! I don't know about Oxton, but I'll grab some black coffee if you're offering. Oxton's going to captain this thing today, and I bet she'll fly so smoothly I'll fall asleep without some caffeine."

She smiled cordially at him, glancing at me. "It would be my pleasure to bring some to you," she said. "I'm sorry to hear you won't be our captain today. I feel so safe when you are flying us."

I could have _gagged_. Why was she sucking up to him?

Morrison laughed. "Well, thanks for the compliment! But I trained Oxton here myself so you have nothing to worry about." He looked at me. "Lena! This is Amélie Lacroix—she used to be married to my good old buddy Gérard before the accident, we all flew together for _years_. She's left Overwatch Aviation Society and defected to Talon, now, though." He looked back at her. "Maybe we can tempt you back, eh? I know they're looking for Service Managers at the moment..."

She worked for _Talon_? Our biggest competitor? What on earth was she doing here, then?!

She gave him a sickly sweet smile. "I'm happy with Talon, thank you," she said. "I'm just here to help you since Overwatch so short-staffed at the moment..."

Morrison wasn't having any of it. "Just you wait, we'll have you working for us again," he told her, chuckling, and then looked her up and down again. "Well, this is a nice surprise!"

"It is," she agreed, and then looked directly at me. "It's a _pleasure_ to meet you, Ms. Oxton," she said in such a saccharin tone that it almost sounded sarcastic. "I'm sure nothing will go wrong for you on your first flight."

Morrison didn't notice how insincere she sounded. He patted her back, laughed jovially, and then let her go make us our drinks.

I was still trying to process what I'd heard. "You _know_ her."

He sat in the co-pilot seat and oriented himself to the controls. "Know her? She used to be practically family, once! You've heard me talking about Gérard, right? We piloted planes together for years, he was a spectacular pilot. His wife—Amélie, the woman you just met—used to manage our service crew."

I strained to remember what he'd said about Gérard. I wished I'd paid more attention. "Before that plane crash in Switzerland?"

Morrison sobered a little. "Yeah, before that: Overwatch's one and only incident. I still can't figure out what could have gone wrong, and Amélie can't remember any of it." He sighed heavily, and then changed the subject. "Anyway, that's a bit of a bleak conversation for your maiden flight, right? We should be talking about what a great captain you're going to make and the great things all of these rich and important people on board are going to say about you after you land!"

We went through the pre-flight safety checklist step-by-step—honestly, it was very similar to the 445—until we'd reached the last step with all green lights. I drew a tick in the last box and then sat back.

I took a breath. "I think we're ready."

Morrison gave me a look. "Sorry, what was that, captain? You _think_?"

My stomach fluttered. "We _are_ ready," I repeated more firmly, sitting up straight. "Morrison, if you wouldn't mind please checking the cockpit lock and then sending the all-clear to ground control and crew."

"Yes, sir, Captain," he told me with another grin, and then got on the comm to do that while I looked at my own mic. I'd _dreamt_ of doing this. I was practically _bubbling_ with excitement! I picked it up, and after Morrison had finished his transmission, he gave me a wide grin. "Go ahead, kid. Do the honours."

Feeling like I was honestly about to _burst_ , I pressed the 'live' button. " _Good morning, Everyone_!" I said, a bit disoriented by the feedback of my own voice I could hear in my headset. " _This is your captain Lena Oxton speaking, and I'd like to welcome you on board for the maiden flight of the brand spanking new A448!_ "


	20. A Little Dessert - Mercy (POV) x Pharah

Prompt: **"Mercy tries to be smooth af and asks Pharah for some Egyptian dessert in her quarters. Pharah, due to culture/language barriers or whatever misses the point and brings Mercy baklava or kunafeh."** Speed prompt, written in 51 minutes.

* * *

A successful mission meant celebration drinks at the hotel bar (the only place that served alcohol in the volume _we'd_ drink it in Cairo), repeating, 'Well, maybe _one_ more…' several times before forgetting how many times I'd said it, and then saying and doing things that I'd definitely regret the following morning when footage of them ended up on Hana's YouTube channel.

I was up to the part where I tried to push yet another glass of Sav Blanc away while Reinhardt insisted on placing it into my hand and loudly declaring, "Have a little fun, Angela! You're not on duty now!" until I gave up and agreed to drink it, and then found myself swimming in a pleasant alcohol haze and gazing blankly into the ether.

Or, more precisely, gazing indulgently into Fareeha's cleavage when neither Hana or Lena's phones were pointing towards me.

Fareeha herself was sober. Or, at least, only slightly tipsy. She'd been nursing a single beer all evening and watching me with concern, and, if I was honest, I rather liked it. I liked her protective streak. I liked it even more when she was wearing a thin tank-top and tight jeans, because I could see the muscles that came with that streak.

When Reinhardt tried to fill my glass _again_ , she held the glass out of my reach and gave it back to him. "That's enough," she said in a 'don't argue with me' voice.

He laughed heartily, not bothered at all. "More for me, then!" he said, and proceeded to take advantage of that.

"Thanks," I said quietly to her. I wasn't sure if I'd have been able to stomach another drink without getting ill.

"You're welcome," she said, and gave me a warm smile that made me a little too warm.

Way too warm, in fact; she was very pretty. Well, _more_ than very pretty: she was beautiful.

 _Ana would kill me_ , I thought as my eyes dipped to her full cleavage yet again. She was wearing dog-tags that sat on it, and to avoid looking like I was just _staring_ at her breasts, I clumsily reached out to read them. I missed a little, and ended up pulling the chain quite firmly and jerking her head down. Then, I couldn't stop _laughing_ about how ridiculous I was being as I apologised. Some professional, I was!

She wasn't laughing. She didn't seem annoyed, though, just concerned. "Perhaps we should go and find you something to eat?" she suggested, I think of looking for ways for me to sober up.

In my drunken haze, the reference to 'eat' was too much. Lord help me. "I can think of something I'd rather enjoy eating," I said, knowing I'd be absolutely horrified tomorrow when I was sober again and remembered saying it.

She pretended to miss my connotation. "You can?"

I leant heavily on the bar. "Uh-huh," I told her, tugging on her dog-tags again. "Maybe some... local Egyptian delicacies?" A voice inside my head was vocalising Munch's _The Scream_ even as I was saying it.

She watched me very closely. I expected for her to tell me I'd had too much and it was time for me to sleep it off, because I certainly would have said that to me. What she _actually_ said was a pleasant surprise. "You know," she told me with a little grin, "I think room services delivers. We could go upstairs to my room if you like? We might be more comfortable there…"

Was she…? I squinted at her. I think she _was_ flirting with me. In fact, I was sure of it. That grin was far too cheeky to be innocent.

My eyes got lost in her cleavage again for a moment as I let her dog-tags drop. "Sounds like a plan!" I said brightly, hoping I'd get the opportunity to let more than my eyes get lost in there.

Predictably, she had to give me some assistance to get there. Her gentle hands and strong arms supported me in the lifts and in the hallway; she was practically carrying me by the time she deposited me on the couch in her room.

I lay there, looking up at those muscular arms and that shining skin as she stood over me, and practically _salivating_ at the thought of having all of it in my mouth. I wet my lips.

"I hope you just worked up an appetite…" she commented, looking down at me with a grin.

Completely ready to be ravished by her, I hooked an ankle suggestively behind her knee. "I did."

"I'm pretty hungry too," she told me, with a nervous smile. "And I have to admit, I've been wanting to show you what Egypt has to offer you for a long time…"

I raised my eyebrows. I hadn't noticed her showing _that_ much interest in me, but I really liked the thought of it. "Well, come here and show me…" I beckoned for her to join me on the couch.

She did, sitting a little shyly on the edge of it. She laughed nervously. "You know, my mother would kill me, eating dessert without having dinner first…"

I… wondered if that was some sort of sex-before-marriage reference? Ana hadn't been _that_ traditional, I thought… I was trying to figure that out and reaching towards those full hips of hers when she picked up the room service menu from the coffee table and opened it. "So, have you tried _Umm Ali_? It was my favourite dessert as a little girl."

I was so stunned I just blinked for a moment.

She seemed a bit confused. "If you're not interested in that, we could try something sweet from the south instead?" She paused. "What were you interested in trying?"

 _You_ , _you idiot_ , I thought, and then laughed at myself. It served me right. I put a hand over my eyes and _laughed_. "No, it's perfectly fine. _Umm Ali_ sounds great."


	21. A Fish Out of Water - Mercy(POV)xPharah

Speed prompt, written in 8 minutes. What if Egyptian-born Fareeha visited Angela in Switzerland?

* * *

It was a beautiful winter's day in Bern—the air was crisp, the snowfall had been light, and the sun was just peaking over the buildings and throwing orange light onto the ground. These were Angela's favourite days: days with it was clear and sunny, but cold enough so that the snow didn't melt and everything still looked like a Christmas card. She was hoping the weather would be like this when Fareeha visited.

"Isn't it like a fairytale?" she asked, smiling at the sunrise.

When she didn't get an answer, she frowned and turned back towards her colleague.

Fareeha was wearing the equivalent of an entire ski shop, rugged up so much she was almost spherical. She was _still_ shivering. "I hope you brought your staff with you," she chattered. "Because your fairytale is going to kill me."


	22. Chemistry - Widowmaker(POV)xTracer -NSFW

Widowmaker refuses to be a slave to her feelings - which is why she must kill Tracer. Speed prompt, written in 98 minutes.

* * *

Talon prepared me for this.

 _Feelings are a weakness_ , they said. _They will be used against you, against Talon._

The more I thought about it, the more I realised they were right. Feelings are a lie. They are chemicals in your body, in your brain, as changeable as the weather. One minute you are so in love with someone, and the next minute you feel nothing for them, and the things you did while you were high on those false chemicals seem insane—because they _are_ insane.

I am not insane anymore, thanks to Talon. I am more powerful than any insane person who is a slave to their own chemicals. Now, I use people's chemicals against them. I use my body to make those _weaklings_ feel things for me. They fall to their knees before me, salivating like dogs, they are practically begging me to kill them. It's _pathetic_.

I will never be that pathetic. I will never let anyone make me a slave to my own chemicals like I once was, and I will eliminate anyone who is a threat to me and a threat to the organisation that saved me.

This is why I must kill Tracer.

I have been waiting for her all day. Spiders are patient, they don't go running after their prey: they set the perfect trap and wait. I have the perfect trap waiting for her to return home to: I am on the opposite balcony to her flat, Widow's Kiss poised, eyes trained through the sight.

I am far enough that she won't see me before it's too late, but close enough to hear her singing on the way up to that horrible little hovel she lives in. She's singing out of tune, it disgusts me. I hear the rustle of grocery bags, and jingle of her keys as she fits them in the lock. I can see her in my mind's eye in their stairwell: waving in cheerful greeting to her neighbours, bouncing up the stairs like a child, smiling to herself like a fool.

I wonder what she's wearing. It's important I think of that: it will affect how I kill her. She sometimes wears caps—if she's wearing one today, I hope her clothes are tight. If they are, I will shoot her just above that damn Chronal device of hers, right in the heart.

I find myself preferring that option; it has a certain poetry to it. I smile, imagining it.

When she opens the door, she's not wearing a hat. Her messy hair pokes in all directions and her athletic clothes cling to her body. Through my sight, I watch her put down her groceries, take her phone and her wallet out of her pocket, and then spend several seconds _dancing_ in her living room to the sound of her own terrible singing.

I have to look away from the sight for a moment, disgusted. Sometimes, I can't _believe_ this woman.

Like the fool she is, she doesn't draw her blinds. It's almost like she _wants_ me to kill her. I watch her put away her groceries in the kitchen, turn on her sound system so she's playing that awful song she was singing—at least it's in tune this time—and then spend a few minutes fighting with her hair in the mirror. In the end, she makes a face at her reflection and gives up.

My rifle focuses and refocuses every time she moves. I could have shot her a thousand times already, but it must be the _perfect_ shot. When I kill Tracer, it will be like killing my pathetic ex-husband: I will remember this bullet forever. It must be a beautiful kill.

Tracer is everything except beautiful. She is ridiculous. Cooking her dinner, she puts that damn song on repeat and sings into a salt-shaker. She blinks to the opposite side of the kitchen and sings the man's part to herself, an then blinks back and sings the woman's part. It is almost a crime that someone this embarrassing has lived for this long.

She can't cook, either: she just puts everything in the deep fryer and fries all her would-be fresh food into oblivion. When she eats, though, she makes noises—indulgent noises, with her eyes rolling from the pleasure—like she's never eaten anything so delicious. It makes me uncomfortable to hear them. I almost shoot her right then to make her stop.

Afterwards, she drops her dishes in the sink without washing them, and disappears out of sight down her narrow hallway.

I curse for a moment—perhaps I have missed my chance!—but then I hear the shower and see her open the small window of her bathroom to a gust of steam. I have to move to a slightly different position to see in.

I reposition just in time to see her unbuckle her Chronal Accelerator and slide it down to her stomach so she can unthread her arms from her jacket. My lips part: soon I will have a direct sight on her naked chest: the perfect shot.

She isn't facing _me_ yet, though. I watch as she pulls her skivvy over her head and unclasps her bra, dropping it somewhere on the floor. I can't see her legs, but I can see the movement she makes as she steps out of her pants and then slides the Accelerator but up her torso again. Her back is slender; I can see every notch in her spine. I could paralyse her by shooting any of them.

I don't want that, though. I want _more_.

"Turn towards me, chérie," I find myself whispering. "Show me where your heart is…"

As if she's heard me, she does, at least partially. She turns sideways, stretching and yawning as she steps under the water. I can see her breasts, small and firm against her ribcage, nipples taut from the cold evening air through the window. I can count each rib on her fragile body as she stretches. Her skin looks so soft, so vulnerable. She's so small and so slender I could probably shoot her almost anywhere and kill her. My eyes explore her body, considering the organs under each part of it that would be destroyed if I shot her there. I can feel my own heartbeat.

She washes her hair first, sculpting it into different shapes with the shampoo and then giggling at herself. Her little breasts bounce as she giggles. Then she washes her face, shaves several parts of her, and then she's got her face upturned to the warm water as it runs over her, eyes closed.

I think for a moment she's probably just enjoying the heat… and then I realised her hands are between her thighs where I can't see them.

I take a sharp breath, looking away from the sight for a moment. Then, I am immediately disgusted with myself. I am a grown woman, not a child. I _weaponise_ sexuality, how absolutely pathetic that I should be embarrassed by any display of it! I force myself to look through the sight again.

She hasn't stopped. I can't see below her waist, but I can see the muscles in her arms working. I can see her curling inwards towards her hands, bending outwards and arching her back… I hope she keeps going, because the further back her neck is, the heavier breaths she's drawing, the easier it will be for me to land the perfect bullet through her heart.

 _Keep going_ , I think, shifting restlessly on my ledge. It's hard for me to sit still, because I can feel the kill is close. I am excited by how close it is; I can even feel my own pulse hard and fast. _Keep going. Bare that chest, bare that neck for me_ …

She does. She arches her delicate neck, she throws open her fragile chest, and I am breathing with her, panting with her, the Widow's Kiss fully focused and waiting for her to turn towards me so I can see the perfect target on her chest. When her mouth opens, mine does too, and as she grabs for the shower curtain, as she braces herself against the wall, I can hear her gasps, her little moans, and my own fingers quiver on the trigger for the life I am about to take—and then _finally_ , she turns towards the window, laying her chest bare for me, looking upwards towards the sky as she—

— _sees me_.

Her eyes open wide in shock, and so do mine.

For a moment, we stare at each other, _horrified_.

" _Shit_!" I hiss in French, and then drop to the floor of the balcony I'm on, out of sight. I can feel my heart _pounding_ in my chest; it's such an alien feeling. When I touch my cheeks, they are hot.

For a moment I can't think; all I can see behind my eyelids is the slope of her neck and the curve of her chest and I am paralysed against the cold tiles. I let my hot cheeks sit against them.

How _sloppy_ of me, to be so visible—what was I _thinking_? Talon trained me better than this!

 _It's because I was greedy,_ I decide. _It's because I was too greedy, wanting the perfect kill._ That, and because I had assumed I was shooting a fish in a barrel, I was too relaxed and let down my guard.

 _Two mistakes I won't repeat_ , I promise myself several times. I have nothing to worry about. I don't. This failure means nothing. So she knows I'm hunting her: so what? I will just have to be more careful. This way is more of a challenge anyway; I have nothing to worry about.

Talon won't find out. They won't; they won't find out what I've done and plug me in again, or pry my eyelids open again, I won't scream until my throat is raw again—no one will find out. I don't need reconditioning. I just need patience.

"I just need patience," I repeat to myself, my eyes closed. I won't be greedy again.

I won't be.

When my heart has slowed and my skin is cool, I stand. She has drawn her blinds and turned off the lights; tonight won't be the night I kill her, it seems.

No matter.

I will get her. I won't be a slave to my chemistry.


	23. Double-date - Widowtracer & Pharmercy

Prompt: "rocket angel/widowtracer double date", written in 88 minutes and from Pharah's POV.

* * *

They weren't speaking to each other again, I could see that as soon as I spotted them. Widowmaker had struck a very aloof pose, staring neutrally out the restaurant window, and Lena was all scrunched up with her arms crossed and a deep frown, looking like a kettle at the point of boiling. Any second, Widowmaker was going to cop an angry lecture about whatever had just happened.

The two of us stopped, watching them through the window.

"Oh, dear," Angela said mildly beside me, echoing my thoughts exactly. Our first night off in two weeks, and we had to end up on a double-date with the most dramatic couple in Britain, didn't we? So much for a nice, relaxing evening...

"Perhaps we should go have a quiet dinner somewhere else?" I suggested. I wasn't in the mood for any sort of conflict.

Angela shook her head. "We said yes," she told me. "I'm sure it will blow over, you know these two." She led me inside.

When we entered the restaurant, Widowmaker spotted us first. She gave us a very polite nod, standing briefly from her seat at the window to lean across the table and kiss Angela's cheeks. Her and I had never really gotten along—I found her to be very stand-offish and difficult to work with, and I didn't like how she treated Lena—so we simply gave each other a tight smile as Angela and I sat opposite them at the table.

Lena remained scrunched in a ball and didn't look at any of us. There was practically steam coming out of her ears.

Angela and I glanced at each other. "That's a lovely shirt, Lena," she told her, trying to break the tension. "Is it new?"

Widowmaker answered for her. "I bought it in Milan last month," she told us, and then reached out to fix the collar which was a little twisted.

In a flash, Lena batted her hand away faster than was humanly possible—I think she might have blinked forward to do it—and ended up with her face level with Widowmaker's. "Don't you dare act like _nothing's happened_!" she said, and then blinked back to her original position, arms crossed.

We all sat there uncomfortably for a moment, blinking ourselves.

Widowmaker rolled her eyes at us. "Sorry about her," she told us. "She enjoys… how is it in English? 'Airing our dirty laundry in public'."

Well, that did it. Lena's eyes opened and her mouth opened and it looked like he was going to _blast_ Widowmaker right here in this fancy restaurant before Angela quickly stood and took her by the shoulders, saying abruptly, "Could you show me where the toilets are?" and leading her away from the table.

As they left, I could hear Lena saying, "Look, I know you've worked very hard to keep her alive and all that, but I swear to god I'm going to murder her, Dr Ziegler…"

Unfortunately, that meant that Widowmaker and I were left alone sitting opposite each other at the table. Neither of us had anything to say to each other, so we just picked up the menus and pretended to be engrossed in them.

While we were considering what to order, we both heard Lena's raised voice from the bathrooms—followed by the muffled sound of Angela trying to placate her.

Widowmaker and I looked at each other for a moment. Then, she rolled her eyes and sighed at length, as if to indicate this was something she put up with often. Like she expected me to _agree_ with her that Lena's behaviour was inappropriate.

Well, I didn't.

I had already decided I didn't want to get involved, but that long-suffering sigh actually really bothered me. It was _wrong_. You didn't complain to other people, especially work colleagues, about the behaviour of your partner. In my opinion, _that_ was just as much 'airing dirty laundry' as yelling _at_ your partner in front of them. I found it incredibly hypocritical of her to be accusing Lena of that and yet doing exactly the same thing herself. It was very unfair.

The more I thought about it, the more unfair I thought it, and after a couple of minutes I found myself glaring at that impassive face of hers. I had to say something. "Perhaps you should apologise to her."

She looked up, surprised. "And why would that be?"

"Because you clearly upset her, and when you upset someone, the right thing to do is to apologise to them."

Her eyebrows went up. "That would imply that I did something deserving of an apology, and I did not." She looked back at her menu. "Lena can be so much of a child sometimes. She gets worked up over nothing—that is not something _I_ should apologise for."

 _Was she seriously_ —I leant on my elbows on the table. "Listen!" I told her, and was silent for a moment so we could both hear Lena's voice. "Hear that? She's upset. _You_ upset her, it doesn't matter if you meant to, or—"

"—You don't know what happened," she told me calmly. "So perhaps you should mind your own business."

I gaped at her. I was with Lena on this one: I was going to _throttle_ this blue woman. I could feel the vein popping out on my forehead. "Then perhaps you shouldn't _make it our business_ _by having all your domestic arguments right in front of_ —"

A voice interrupted us. "Are you ready to order, ladies?"

I sat back, taking a breath.

The waiter's direct stare made me realise _I_ was getting worked up in the middle of this fancy restaurant. I swallowed all my animosity for this _awful_ woman back down inside me and ordered a steak for myself and a warm salad for Angela. Widowmaker didn't even bother ordering for Lena.

Our food was already out by the time Angela returned to the table. She had a smile—not surprising, really, she always smiled—but this one seemed a little hopeful. "Widowmaker," she said as she sat down beside me. "Lena would like to have a word with you in the bathroom."

"Would she?" Widowmaker said impassively, eyes on her food as she ate. She made no attempt to move.

That was it. I put down my knife and fork, standing. I swear to god I was going to _pick this woman up_ and carry her into the bathroom to _force_ her to do the right—

Angela put a hand on my arm to stop me. She was still looking at Widowmaker. "I really think you should go and speak to her," she said warmly. Far more warmly than I would have.

Widowmaker made a non-committal noise, delicately cutting her and a going to place it in her mouth.

Before it got there, though, Angela's hand shot across the table and grabbed her wrist. In a bright, cheerful voice that contradicted the white-fisted grip she had on Widowmaker's arm, she said, "Go to the bathroom and make peace with your girlfriend."

Widowmaker looked up sharply at her, brow low.

For a moment, I was terrified she was going to say it: 'Still trying to play peacemaker, Dr Ziegler?' or something equally as biting and horrible. She was capable of it. Oh, was she capable of it. I was ready for her to say it, too, so I could _smash_ her through the window and throw her across the street, like she deserved. She _deserved_ to be punished for the way she behaved, and it would be my absolute pleasure to metre that justice out to her.

To my surprise, she didn't say it, though. When she saw Angela's expression, something in her softened. Almost as a concession to her, she _rolled her eyes_ and stood. " _Very well_ ," she said as if she was doing her a great favour, and then muttered something in French as she left.

I didn't know what it was, but Angela didn't look very bothered by it. "Don't forget I speak French, too," she called out to Widowmaker, and then, smiling in satisfaction, she turned her attention to the salad I'd ordered her. "This looks delicious!"

I couldn't believe she still had an appetite. Mine was gone. "I don't think I'm hungry anymore," I said stiffly.

She smiled at me, waving her hand dismissively. "Oh, don't worry about those two!" she told me. "Just two very passionate people with a terrible communication problem. It will blow over; they still love each other."

I could hardly believe that. I didn't know why _anyone_ would like Widowmaker; she was so cold and so cruel. When I was silent, Angela looked up, laughing softly when she saw my hard expression. "Fareeha, it's alright, they're making up."

I think I would have been more comfortable with them _breaking_ up. "If you say so."

She stopped eating and put a gentle hand on my arm, cocking her head so her ear was in the direction of the toilets. There were no raised voices. She smiled and then kept eating, looking very pleased with herself.

I'm not sure I really believed that everything was alright until much later when the other two returned from the bathroom, tussle-haired and pink-cheeked with secret smiles. Lena still had remnants of Widowmaker's red lipstick on her neck.

Completely innocently, they sat down opposite us at the table and Lena unfolded her menu. "Well, I'm _famished_!" she declared, as if she'd never been on the brink of tearing her girlfriend apart with her bare hands.

Without making eye-contact with her, Widowmaker said neutrally, "Try the veal, it's excellent."

Under the table, I could see them reaching for each other's hands.

Angela watched this display with pleasure, a big smile on her face. When they were both engrossed in their menus, she glanced up at me. Her big glowing smile said, ' _look! I did good!'_ and I had to chuckle; I knew how much she loved to help people reconcile.

I touched her cheek, and then reached for her hand under the table, too.

Maybe tonight wouldn't be so bad, after all.


	24. Pick-Up Lines - Mercy x Pharah - SFW

Prompted on Tumblr: "can you do something with terrible pick up lines?" Yes. Yes, I can. Speed Prompt, written in 22 minutes.

* * *

For McCree's birthday, Angela Ziegler: hostess extraordinaire, organised a cowboy-themed party. The neatly-lettered invitations were very specific: everyone needed to come dressed as a cowboy.

For Angela and Fareeha that wasn't much of a challenge, but for some of the others (including Bastion, who was rolling around in tank form with a saddle draped over his canon) their costumes required a little more improvisation. The result was impressive, though, and when McCree wandered up to his hotel room, it was full of would-be cowboys yelling 'Surprise!', shooting cap-guns and _yee-haw_ ing.

He was _delighted_. "You're makin' me tear up!" he told them all only half-ironically as everyone toasted him and sang Happy Birthday.

He'd been accepting their well-wished one-by-one, touring them all and admiring their attempts at costumes, but when he got to Fareeha's. He _laughed_.

She stood to attention out of habit, quickly glancing in panic at Angela. "What?"

He was still laughing. "Honey, you are the stiffest lookin' cowgirl I've ever seen. You got to _relax_ to look the part!"

"I'm relaxed!" she protested, looking anything but relaxed.

" _Right_ ," he said and length and then stepped alongside her. "Come on. Pull that pole out and I'll teach you how to walk _proper_."

Much to everyone's entertainment, McCree then attempted to teach Fareeha a cowboy swagger with very mixed results. It was the funniest thing Angela had ever seen—although, since she was quite drunk, everything felt like the funniest thing she'd ever seen.

It got even more entertaining with Fareeha swaggered back up to her and leant an elbow on the kitchen bench, attempting a suave, boyish grin. "Hey there, sugar," she told Angela in a horribly butchered southern accent. "Are you sore?"

Angela thought she'd misheard her first, because it seemed like such an odd thing to say. Was she going to offer a massage or something similar? "No…?"

That boyish grin deepened. "Well, you should be," she said. "Because that's some _long_ fall from heaven."

Angela stared at her a moment, and then closed her eyes and _groaned_. "What have I created?" she asked rhetorically, and then pulled Fareeha's cowboy had down over her eyes and kissed her soundly.


	25. East End 3 - Tracer(POV)xWidowmaker

East End #3, obviously set after #1 and #2, and written in 121 minutes.

* * *

The problem with a bloody assassin having a thing about killing me is that she was an _assassin_ : it wasn't like doors or locks or anything would bother her if she decided tonight was the night she was going to murder me. I locked everything anyway, drew all my blinds, and then sat in the dark listening to all the odd noises coming from the nooks and crannies of my old flat, imagining all the horrible ways she might try to kill me.

It was silly; Widowmaker had been trying to kill me for ages and she'd never bothered to tail me here. It wasn't really her style to kill people while they were pottering about their homes: she preferred dramatic, public murders that she could watch on the telly afterwards with a glass of red.

Then again, it wasn't really her style to throw me up against a wall and snog me either, and she'd just done that…

I swallowed. It was _right_ creepy, it was, the whole kissing thing. Maybe her kissing her targets was some weird black widow spider reference I didn't understand? I knew spiders killed their lovers after they'd got it on, so maybe she was just snogging me in preparation to kill me? She had called her rifle 'Widow's Kiss' after all.

Even though it was pretty unlikely that she'd come here, I decided I'd get my blasters out just to be on the safe side. Once I had them, I sat back down to listen to all the noises that might be Widowmaker infiltrating my flat while I tried to sort out what was going on.

 _She's probably not going to come here,_ I tried to reassure myself, _her snogging me is probably just some ploy to get me thinking about her like that so when we next cross paths, she has the upper hand._

Well, it wasn't going to work on me, that was for sure. I wasn't some toey teenager who'd salivate at the thought of shagging her and make critical mistakes as a result, no siree! I could quite easily imagine shagging her _without_ getting dangerously distracted!

I frowned; wait, that didn't come out right. What I'd meant was that her cheap trick of being horribly sexy and half-undressed around me wasn't going to lead to a victory for her, and if she thought using her _womanly wiles_ on another woman was going to work, she had another think coming.

I mean, she obviously _did_ think that, though, didn't she? Otherwise, why would she have stripped in front of me for what felt like a full half hour and then gone right in and snogged me in some posh restaurant? Clearly, she expected me to have a reaction to all that. Well, the joke was on her, because I hadn't. Not really. Not enough to land her a victory, anyway: I was _quite_ able to dismiss that mental image of her in that fancy bra, and those cool lips against my—

A knock at the door made me jump a mile.

 _It's her_! I thought, and then very nearly blinked a few times and scuttled under the bed. Then, I rolled my eyes at myself; I'd never been afraid of her before, why should I start now? Taking a deep breath, I grabbed one of my blasters and edged up to the door.

 _Her rifle could probably shoot right through the wood_ , I realised, and so trod very, very lightly so she wouldn't know I was there to fire. The Widow's Kiss made a very subtle ping-ping-ping sound as it focused, so I put my ear up to the door to listen for it.

" _Lena_!" my neighbour's gruff voice _blasted_ right on the other side, nearly deafening me. "The missus made an extra pot of mash if you'd like to pop over for some!"

I stood up, grimacing and rubbing my ears; you had to be bloody kidding me! Normally I rather liked having a de facto mother who cooked and washed up for me, but _now_? "Thanks, but I'm fine, actually!" I called back, leaning my forehead against the door.

"Well, the kettle's on if you change your mind," he said, and then I listened to his footsteps disappear across the hall and into his own little flat while I reflected on how completely paranoid I was being, sitting here in the dark and creeping about in my own home.

Honestly, look at me: this was bloody ridiculous. There was no way I was going to get any sleep at all if I just left it; I needed to know what that evil woman was up to or it was going to drive me mental.

I put my jacket back on so I could tuck my blasters on the inside of it, and headed back out to see if she was still in that restaurant.

It was a good plan, going back, because there was no way she'd suspect it. In fact, she was probably having a glass of victory wine over how thoroughly she'd freaked me out, never suspecting that I wasn't freaked out at all and I was returning to get to the bottom of things.

When I made it there, I didn't bother with the front door this time. Instead, I snuck around the laneways and hunted about for some way up to that balcony so I could creep back in. There wasn't a ladder or anything, but there were loads of rubbish bins, and with a bit of luck I managed to stack them all on top of each other and pull myself back up before they all fell down.

Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I dusted off my hands and then turned towards the balcony door. A quick look through it revealed Widowmaker wasn't seated at her table. That was a bit odd, because her half-eaten food was there. Perhaps she'd ducked off to the loo or something like—

"You'd make a _terrible_ assassin."

I jumped so high I nearly recalled to the Palaeolithic era, spinning and pulling my blasters on her. Unfortunately, I was used to holsters, and because I didn't have any I accidentally dropped one of them. It clattered across the balcony floor to her feet.

She was leaning casually against the railing with her ankles and arms crossed, in the shadow of a big old pot plant. She looked down at my blaster at her feet and then up at me with a gun pointed at her, unmoved. "I could have heard you climbing up here from my apartment in France." She didn't sound very impressed.

"It's not my fault they don't have a bloody fire exit!" I told her. "Rubbish bins aren't exactly easy to climb up, you know!"

She laughed once like I was her evening entertainment or something. Then, she stood and kicked my blaster aside with one of her sharp heels. "So," she said, swaying those hips as she advanced on me, "did you come back to finish what we started?"

 _Oh my_ — my eyes widened. " _No_!" I told her, waving my blaster in warning. "I came back to find out what the bloody hell you're up to!"

She didn't look away from me, but she did lick her lips. It was on purpose, I swear. It made me think of watching her lick her thumb as I ran off. "Oh, did you?" she said like she didn't believe me at all. "What did you expect to find out?"

I was still staring at those lips and it took me a moment to process what she'd said. I gulped and looked back into her eyes. Honestly, that wasn't much better. "Erm, well, I-I thought I'd sort of peek in and see what you were up to…" I suddenly realised I had no idea at all what I'd planned to do when I got here, and she knew it. Oh, no. Oh, this wasn't good at all. She was still advancing on me, and there was a wall behind me; I couldn't retreat any further. "I mean, p-perhaps you'd take a call from Talon, or perhaps you'd be gone because you'd followed me to my flat…"

She was feigning exaggerated interest, nodding like she was listening to a child telling her a tall story.

"It's true!" I protested, but even to _my_ ears it sounded very she-doth-protesteth-too-much.

As if to illustrate that, walked _right_ up into my blaster, so the nose of it was pushing on her breast-bone, right in the centre of her cleavage. Her breath was cool on my face as she looked down at me. "So shoot me, then."

T-That was— " _What_?"

She pushed against the barrel. "If you are so sure I am doing something diabolical, shoot me. Save the world, or whatever it is that you tell yourself that you do."

I didn't… I mean, I couldn't…

She gave me a cold, knowing smile. "I thought so," she said, and then leant her lips close to my ear with my blaster still between us and murmured. "You want to know what is my master plan?"

 _I think I'm actually about to die_ , I realised, wondering why that didn't seem to concern me enough to blink away.

"My evil, evil master plan is to have a nice dinner with a woman I find very attractive," she whispered, and while I was reeling from her just coming straight out like that and calling me 'attractive', she added suggestively, "and then maybe afterwards I _will_ follow her home to her flat."

My jaw dropped.

While I was gaping at her, she stood up from my ear, turning that evil bloody smile on me again. "So, what do you say, chérie?" she asked me with unblinking eye-contact. "Will you come and share a dessert with me? The food here is absolutely _breathtaking_."

Even that sounded like a threat. I completely expected to be poisoned, but it wasn't like I could go home now, could I? I couldn't shake the feeling that she was up to something, and that I was the right person to get to the bottom of it.

 _Maybe two can play at this spy-game_ , I thought, trying very, very hard not to look down into her cleavage where the blaster was pointed.

I found my voice somehow. "W-Well, perhaps someone should keep an eye on you," I conceded a bit breathily, dropping my blaster. "You know, in case you try to do something. But I'm warning you, Widowmaker, I'm watching you!"

Her eyebrow twitched. "Oh, I hope so," she told me over a shoulder as she turned smoothly on her heel and walking towards the door. She was doing that swishy-hip-thing on purpose, it was like having a coin swinging backwards and forwards in front of my eyes.

It was only when she cleared her throat that I realised I'd been staring at her hips instead of going through the door she'd been holding open for me.

 _Whoops_ , I thought, pulling myself together and clumsily retrieving my blaster from the ground where she'd kicked it. I was going to have to be much more careful if she wasn't going to get the jump on me before I figured out what was _really_ going on.


	26. It Can't Be Helped - Mercy x Pharah

Prompted on Tumblr: "How about writing a prompt using one of Mercy's dialogue lines? :)" Okay! I'm choosing "It can't be helped." Written in 20 minutes!

* * *

"That smile of yours makes me _sick_ ," Reyes spat, practically in her face. After all these years, Angela had thought she'd be used to his gruffness. She found she still wasn't. "We lost. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

She finished bandaging him and forced a bright smile. "Of course it does. But being miserable about it won't change anything, will it?" He gave her such a horrible look of disgust that it made _her_ feel sick.

 _What people say to you says more about them than you_ , _Angela_ , she repeated to herself as she moved on to her next patient, and tried to put it out of her mind. After all, it wouldn't do to dwell on something she knew she couldn't change.

That evening, when the Valkyrie was hung up and she was back in her sweats, she switched on the TV and went to cook a quick dinner before Fareeha arrived home.

 _"…another sixteen hundred dead, I'm afraid, Wilson,_ " the reporter was saying as she half-listened, "… _and there'll be more by nightfall. Such a senseless tragedy, all these people dead—looks like this gang doesn't care about how many orphans they create._ "

Angela's knife froze mid-carrot-chop, catching on the word 'orphan'. She drew a long, slow breath. Then, fingers shaking, she forced herself to keep cutting.

"… _and with the area already short on doctors and medical supplies, there's not much that can be done to change the outcome, now_ …"

The knife slipped, and she very nearly cut herself. She stopped for a moment, leaning heavily against the kitchen bench and staring down at her half-finished dinner. Here she was, merrily cooking dinner while people were _dying_.

 _Don't be silly, Angela, you can't make it all the way to that country tonight_! she tried to tell herself dismissively, but she couldn't pick up the knife. She couldn't do it. She kept thinking of those tiny baby children lying awake in bed, waiting for parents who would never return home to kiss them goodnight.

About those children, how they'd spend their entire lives desperately searching for ways to stop other children from ever feeling than pain, and about how when they were _so_ close, _so close_ to finding a way to mass-distribute advanced resuscitation nanotechnology, all their research would be catastrophically destroyed by people they considered their friends.

She looked up at the cupboard above the stove.

 _Maybe just one_ , she thought, reaching for it. _Maybe just one wouldn't hurt._

The problem was, it was never just one.

When Fareeha arrived home, found Angela semi-conscious on the couch hugging an empty wine bottle, with the dinner boiling over on the stove. Sighing, she hurriedly turned off the gas, and then went to care for her girlfriend.

There were dried tears on Angela's cheeks. "I'm sorry," she slurred as Fareeha propped her up; Fareeha wasn't even sure it was meant for her. "I'm so sorry…."

"I know," she said quietly, cradling Angela and taking the bottle from her hands.


	27. Enter Ana Amari - Ana Amari & Widowmaker

Speed prompt, written in 27 minutes. Ana and Widowmaker have unfinished business - and this time, Ana has the upper hand.

* * *

When Widowmaker came to, the first thing she was aware of was how much the joints in her arms and legs ached. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, and she knew what followed it: the thick and bundled cords slapping on the examination table beside her, and the sharp, stabbing pain of the plugs being buried in her flesh. The business-as-usual voice of her Talon mentor _raking_ at her flesh with the wires. He was disappointed in her. She'd failed an assignment, now it was time for reconditioning to address whatever weakness had been uncovered in her.

Her mentor was harsh but fair: he never let her be conscious for long. Just enough for her to _feel_ the consequences of her failure. She deserved it.

As she fluttered her eyes open, bracing for the plugs, a shadow blocked the fluorescent light above. She closed her eyes, waiting for that voice to say 'Hello, Widowmaker'.

"Hello, Amélie."

Her eyes sprung open. That wasn't the voice she was expecting! Her heart—something she hardly felt these days—began a steady drum in her chest. "W-What…?" When her vision cleared, the silhouette was still too blurry to see who it—there was something underneath her eye, though? It seemed—

The Eye of Ra tattoo.

Her breath caught in her throat. Was she hallucinating? Ana Amari was dead! "B-But I killed you!"

The silhouette shrugged nonchalantly. "Guess you're not as hot shit as those Talon psychos would have you believe, because…" She flourished a bow. "Not dead."

It took a moment for Widowmaker to realised Ana was holding a sheet of thin plastic in one hand, and what she had thought was the bundled cords on the examination table was actually a hose. Water was trickling out of it.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no… she tried to sit up, but she was tethered in place by her wrists and ankles. Now she could feel her heart pounding. "Talon is a million times the organization that Overwatch will _ever_ be," she spat at Ana as she wrenched at her bindings anyway. "You were all _fools_ to fall for that idiot Morrison's simplistic fantasy about playing heroes!"

Ana made no move to free her. She just shrugged again. "Well, it hardly matters now," she said dismissively, and then stretched the plastic between two hands. "You and I have some talking to do, Amélie."

"Unless great advances in technology have been made without my knowledge, Amari, I think it is still impossible to talk to the dead, and Amélie is dead."

Ana pressed her lips together, unmoved. "Dead like me?" she asked rhetorically, and then leant over the examination table. "She's not dead, not Amélie. She's hiding in there. Thanks to your subpar aim, I now have the opportunity to find out how deeply Talon buried her in you."

Before Widowmaker could reply, Ana reached down and pulled the plastic tight across her nose and mouth, muffling the woman's shouts as she reached for the water hose.


	28. Mother Knows Best - Ana, Pharah, Mercy

Exploring Pharah's complex relationship with Ana, and the (innocent!) origins of Pharah/Mercy. Speed prompt, written in 60 minutes.

* * *

"I like that Angela girl," Ana told her twelve-year-old daughter, who was busy drawing some nonsense. "She's a genius, you know."

Fareeha kept scribbling furiously away at her tablet. "I know."

"Wouldn't you like to be friends with a genius?" Ana pressed.

Fareeha looked up at her mother. "Yes," she said, because she knew that was what her mother wanted to hear.

"Then what are you doing in here?" Ana asked her. "You can doodle that rubbish any time. Angela is only in the labs on Tuesdays."

Fareeha made a face. "Okay," she said, standing. She spent a moment tilting her head at her tablet and considering it before she took a deep breath and showed it to her mother. She was smiling. "I designed a fully-functional aerial mech suit," she said, pride audible in her voice as she pointed out parts of it. "It has reverse-throttle thrusters here, because you need to have control in the air when you—"

"Angela will be gone soon. Don't you want to see how her advanced healing research is going? You should ask her that. She'd probably like to talk about it."

Fareeha's smile fell. She let the tablet drop to her side. "Okay, mother," she said, slumping.

She was halfway out the door when her mother spoke again. "Fareeha," she said, voice neutral. "Do you know what I would do if I saw someone wearing that suit on the battlefield?"

Fareeha wasn't sure she wanted to hear the answer to that, but she knew she should listen anyway. "What would you do, mother?"

Her mother's expression was hard. "I would shoot them out of the sky. One bullet. They'd be nothing but a sitting duck for a good sniper." She turned her attention back to her news program, saying dismissively, "You should really go and see what Angela is up to."

It felt like a slap in the face; Fareeha hadn't even considered the suit's utility. She just loved the idea of flying, of soaring through the air... Perhaps it was an impossible dream, after all. She swallowed, locking the screen. "Okay, mother," she repeated, and then obediently went to go see what Angela was up to.

Angela was in the labs right where Fareeha had expected her to be. She wasn't wearing a white lab coat and stirring furiously at concoctions in test tubes, though (that's what Fareeha imagined her research to look like), she was wearing jeans and a jumper, lying on an examination table with a drip going into her arm. She was also reading a comic.

Fareeha hung on the doorway. "What are you reading?"

Angela turned her head and sighed. "Whatever it is, it's terrible," she admitted, and then put it down on the table beside her. "It's just there's nothing else to do in here while I wait for this infusion to finish. My phone is completely flat."

"Oh…" Fareeha looked down at her tablet. She had a brief thought that maybe Angela would be interested in her design, but now that she thought about it, if her own mother wasn't, Angela probably wouldn't be either.

Angela saw where she was looking. "What's that?"

Fareeha flushed red, hiding her tablet in the folds of her dress. "It's nothing."

That only made Angela more interested in it, though. "Really? Because it looked like something to me." She held her hand out towards Fareeha. "Show me?"

A little breath caught in Fareeha's throat. It seemed too good to be true, so she peeked up at Angela to see if she was just pretending, or worse: if she was humouring Fareeha like some sort of child. Angela looked genuinely interested, though, and seeing that expression on her face made Fareeha's lungs fill with air.

"Okay!" she told her, unable to stifle a big smile as she went over to the examination table. "I'm working on a flying mech suit design!" She hopped up on the table beside Angela, and they sat together while Fareeha explained all cybernetics and weaponry.

At the end of the presentation, Angela looked genuinely impressed. "You know, I don't know much about weapons, but you should really show this to Torbjorn," she told her. "He _loves_ robotic weaponry, I'm sure he'd be able to give you some pointers on the design."

Fareeha's smile threatened to crack her face. "Really?" Maybe she _would_ fly one day, after all!

Angela returned that smile, and Fareeha had never seen anything so beautiful. "Let's go together when my infusion is finished."


	29. A Little Push - Ana, Pharah x Mercy

Ana spies on Pharah and Mercy. Speed prompt, written in 59 minutes.

* * *

Ana had been watching those two. Oh, yes, she had been; if her daughter thought she was going to sneak anything under the radar of the world's best sniper, she was sorely mistaken. As Fareeha's mother, it was her motherly duty to know everything about her love life, after all!

She had been scoping her daughter and that Angela girl—who'd grown into quite a looker, if she did say so herself—trying to decide what she thought of the conversation they were having when there was a _whoosh_ beside to her.

It had been a long time since she'd heard that sound, but she immediately recognised it. "You're getting good at that," she commented without looking away from the scope.

Tracer's chirpy voice was full of pride. "Aww, thanks, Captain! You missed out on all the fun while I was trying to sort it all out though," she told her. "I used to mess up all the time. Once, I accidentally recalled too far and ended up duplicating myself. I'm not kidding: there were two of me!"

Ana gave her a wry smile. "Heaven forbid."

Tracer laughed good-naturedly. "Winston was so confused. Anyway—" There was a _whoosh_ on Ana's other side, and a face appeared beside hers, peering down her rifle. "—What are you looking at? Is it Secret Sniper Business, or can anyone take a peek?"

Ana leant aside from the sight to let Tracer peer through it.

She did. "Gosh, this gun is bloody _enormous_. I don't know how you even hold it! Well, let's see what—Oh! Keeping a close eye on your daughter, then?"

 _You could say that_ , Ana thought, and then gestured towards them in the distance. "Tell me, Lena," she asked. "Do you think my Fareeha is sleeping with her doctor?"

Tracer looked up from the sight, eyes wide. Then, clearly unsure how to handle what Ana had said, she burst into a fit of nervous laughter. "Hah, good one, Cap!" she told her, smacking her arm playfully. "I thought you were serious for a second there!"

"I am serious."

Tracer stopped mid-laugh. "Oh." She cleared her throat and clearly tried to be serious, as well. "Well, um," she said, "no, I don't think they are? My bunk is right under Dr Ziegler's and she's always in it by herself." She paused. "In fact, she keeps going on and on about how it's nice to not be on call anymore and that people who aren't doctors don't appreciate how precious sleep is, so I'm pretty sure she sleeps there all night."

Ana considered that for a moment and then peered through the scope again. Tracer was probably right; Fareeha was stealing little sidelong looks at Angela, who was practically _throwing_ herself at the damn girl. Honestly, Fareeha could be so _thick_ sometimes.

"But if they are, Captain, Dr Ziegler is a top person. I mean really, really nice."

Ana glanced up at her. "So I should be happy my daughter is with her, if she is?"

Tracer nodded so earnestly at her that it made Ana chuckle—she hadn't changed at all. And if Tracer was right about 'Dr Ziegler', _she_ hadn't changed at all, either. Ana had always secretly rather liked Angela and hoped her and Fareeha would be friends; maybe Angela's staunch pacifism would rub off on her trigger-happy daughter and they're retire to the suburbs and give her a few grandchildren.

...but if her stupid daughter insisted on completely and utterly failing to let herself be hit on, that would never happen. It was actually painful for her to watch; and she decided she wasn't going to. Fareeha clearly needed a little push.

She lowered her rifle for a moment, fishing a sleeping dart out of her cloak.

Cross-legged beside her, Tracer looked confused. "Wait—what are you doing?"

Ana fit the dart into her gun. "Giving romance a little helping hand."

"By _shooting_ her?"

"There isn't anything that can't be solved by the right bullet," she told Tracer, and then peered through the sight again, lining up the shot. "And if Fareeha suddenly falls unconscious, she's going to need a lot of tests and a lot of gentle, loving care to much sure she's alright."

Tracer looked _horrified_. As Ana fired, she asked rhetorically, "Why are snipers all so bloody creepy?"


	30. East End 4 - Tracer(POV)xWidowmaker

Written in 81 minutes. Obviously set after parts 1, 2 and 3.

* * *

If you listened to Dr Zeigler, we should all be sitting across the table from our mortal enemies sorting out our differences over a nice glass of wine. Well, wherever she was, she'd be dead chuffed with me right now, because that was exactly what I was doing: I was sitting across the table from a woman who'd repeatedly tried to murder me, drinking posh wine, pretending I had any idea what a 'chouquette' was, and waiting for the part where she tried to murder me again.

 _At least this time I've got my blasters_ , I thought as I felt the shape of them through my jacket. Since she clearly didn't have her rifle, I felt like that at least gave me an edge.

She clearly didn't think so, though. She had a permanent smirk, and she kept undoing things. First, it was one of the buttons on her shirt so she could make sure I copped a big eyeful of her cleavage every time I looked up from my plate. Then, it was her heels. It was only after she took off the thin scarf she had on and started to fiddle idly with her necklace— _obviously_ in some cheap ploy to make me look at the exposed skin there—I began to worry about how far she'd go in the middle of this stuffy restaurant and all these posh people.

She was enjoying the whole thing far too much. "What's the matter, chérie?" she asked, and then fanned her cheeks as she spoke of me. "Is it a little too hot in here for you?"

If I hadn't been blushing beforehand, I certainly was now. I didn't want her to think she was succeeding in seducing me to distract me from whatever she was up to, though. "I'll have you know I can tell what you're doing, _Widowmaker_!"

She raised a single eyebrow. "I certainly hope so," she said, taking a delicate sip of her wine. "Seeing as that I _told you_ what I am doing."

I scoffed, trying to act all casual-like and eat my food as if she wasn't getting to me. Because she wasn't, definitely not. Now, which of these spoons here was for dessert…? "I mean I can tell what you're _really_ doing, not what you say you are!"

She observed my struggles with the silverware. "I don't think _you_ even know what _you_ are doing," she shot back. "You _do_ know how to use cutlery, don't you, chérie?"

Oh, _please_. "I'm pretty sure I can manage a spoon, _thank you very much_ ," I told her, and then grabbed the biggest, scoopiest one and dug into my croquette or chouquette or whatever the thing on my plate was called.

Apparently I'd made a mistake. "Interesting," was her comment. "I didn't know chouquette was a type of soup." At my blank expression, she nodded at my hand. "That's a soup spoon."

I looked down at it; that _did_ explain its scoopiness. Pfft, it did the job, that's what mattered! "Well, now it's a croquette spoon."

"' _Chouquette'_."

"Oh, _whatever_!"

She was still giving me that smirk. "And you actually don't eat them with a spoon. You eat them with your _fingers_."

Okay, that was it, I'd had it. I slammed my spoon down and stood, leaning forward on the table and jabbing a finger at her. "Listen here, this was all your idea, so you will just have to bloody well manage how I choose to eat my weird French pastries!" I told her, and then sat back down to do exactly that, adding, "And while you're at it, stop batting those eyelashes at me. I'm not falling for it."

While I was _fuming_ over the whole thing, she came right out and _laughed_. Uncrossing her legs, she leant forward on her elbows and gave me an indulgent if patronising smile. "Oh, Lena," she said, "I do so _love_ it when you're angry."

Well, let me tell you, she was very lucky I didn't just take my guns out and kill her on the spot, because believe me, at that point it was a real possibility. I'd opened my mouth to _blast_ her about the nerve of luring me to a French restaurant and then making fun of me not knowing things—how would she like it if I dragged her down to the rough little pub near my flat? The lads there would eat her alive!—when I felt something touch my ankle.

I jumped, looking down past the frilly table-cloth to see a slender, stockinged foot creeping up under the hem of my trousers.

When I looked back at Widowmaker, she winked at me.

That was the final straw. I was going to _murder_ this woman.

I went to spring up and _leap_ at her—not fantastic judgment on my part, I will admit—but she stepped firmly on the bridge of my foot so I couldn't and I just sort of fell back in my chair.

"If you want to wrestle with me, Lena, I don't think here is the place." I could hear the smile in her voice. "But my hotel is nearby, and it has a big, thick rug that will soften your fall when I beat you."

Since she wasn't going to beat me, the rug was a moot point. "I think you're forgetting someone has their _blasters_ with them!" I told her, and whipped them out—to a collective gasp from other patrons—flipping the table right over, kicking her legs out the way and _launching_ myself at her. Tableware and cutlery flew everywhere.

I caught her by surprise and managed to pin her to the floor as a result, pointing my blasters at her face. "I don't know what you're playing at, Widowmaker, but if you think I'm going to let you get away with it, you've got another think coming!"

She gave me a tired look from the floor. "Yes, how very dangerous, having a nice dinner with someone. The world is clearly in great peril. Save us."

"Like I'm thick enough to believe _that's_ all it is!" I told her. "You're obviously trying to distract me with your—your," body, cleavage, your long legs… "your _everything_ while you drug me, or poison me, or _spy_ on me, or kidnap me for Talon, or—"

"—or eat dinner? I still need to eat, you know," she said flatly, and then turned her head to look beside us. "Some hero, you are. You're scaring all these innocent people."

I nearly didn't fall for it—she was just trying to make me look away!—but the collective silence sort of indicated she might have a point. When I looked up around us, everyone else in the restaurant was frozen mid-mouthful with these horrified expressions on their faces. Whoops.

Well, I didn't want the good people of East London to worry about this, because I had it under control. "It's okay!" I called to them. "I'm the good guy, I promise I won't shoot any of you!"

I think maybe the fact I was holding a pair of pistols on what looked like an unarmed woman might have given them the wrong idea, though.

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then everyone in restaurant started _screaming_. It was like a circus in there. There were people running all over the place and things flying everywhere, and someone threw a plate of food at me.

When they were all gone and Widowmaker still hadn't fought back—she was just lying there underneath me with an _I-told-you-so_ expression on her face—it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe I might have overreacted a little tiny bit. The restaurant was completely ruined and I could still hear people screaming out on the street as they ran away.

While I was trying to decide if I thought baiting me so I attacked her was all part of Widowmaker's ploy to kill me, she reached up, scooped a big glop of cream slowly off my cheek with a single finger, and then put her finger in her mouth, locking eyes with me as she sucked it for a moment. "Tiens, tiens..." she said afterwards, while I was definitely, definitely not panicking at all. "Looks like it's only us in here now…"

In a second, she'd flipped me over roughly enough to slam my Chrono Accelerator into the floor and reboot it again, leaning heavily on my wrists so I couldn't shoot her. I couldn't even move at all.

She smiled darkly down at me. "That's better."

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no… I think we'd gotten to the part of the night where she tried to murder me, hadn't we? I gulped.


	31. House Arrest - WidowmakerxTracer

Speed Prompt, written in 30 minutes. While speculating about the silver ankle bracelet Tracer has in her Rio Track & Field outfit, we wondered if it might be a house arrest bracelet. These are the events leading up to it.

* * *

Widowmaker had been observing scrunched up postal envelopes slowly accumulating in their kitchen bin. At first she'd ignored them - honestly, she didn't care what Lena was up to anymore - but after the bin started to overflow, she decided to investigate while she was waiting for the tea kettle to boil.

When she lifted an envelope out of the bin, it was empty. There was a central London address printed on the top left-hand corner, however, but she didn't care enough to bother googling what was there. Shrugging, she tossed the crumpled envelope back in the bin and went to finish making her coffee.

* * *

The following week, when she answered the door—in her lingerie because she wasn't going to get dressed for anyone who _insisted_ on knocking on their door at 8am on a Saturday morning—it was to a sheriff in full uniform.

He gulped when he saw her, and quickly looked away from all that skin. "Lena Oxton?"

Widowmaker was unmoved. "Do I look like a 'Lena Oxton' to you?" she asked in a heavy French accent, and then shut the door in his face.

The actual Lena Oxton peeked around the bend in the hallway, laughing nervously. "Is he gone?"

"Yes," Widowmaker said as she walked past Lena. "But if he comes again, I will drag you out to him by the scruff of your little neck."

"Noted," Lena told her with a pained expression, and then looked very worried for the rest of the evening.

* * *

It was only when the _police_ showed up at their doorstep that Widowmaker cared at all about what was going on. She wasn't interested in moving _again_ , and given what she did for a living she didn't like police hovering around. "What do you want with Lena?" she asked, probably sounding quite annoyed. "What has she done this time?"

The police looked at each other. "Well," one of the officers said, "we can't actually tell you that. We need to speak with Lena Oxton herself. Is she in?" He looked like he was angling for an invitation inside.

He wasn't going to get it from her. "No," she said, "I don't know where she is." She then closed the door on them, walked straight to the kitchen bin and took out one of those envelopes, running her eyes over the address in the corner and committing it to memory.

Then, she grabbed her car keys and headed out the front door.

* * *

Number 1 Queen Victoria Street was an enormous stately building in the centre of London with absolutely no parking anywhere near it. In the end, Widowmaker got sick of trying to navigate those _stupid_ London roads and gave her car to valet at a nearby hotel.

She needed to go through security to get inside the building (and they _insisted_ on making her remove all her concealed weapons), and so by the time she arrived at the Registrar, she was more than a little annoyed.

"Name?" the Registrar asked boredly.

"Lena Oxton," Widowmaker said with a straight face.

The Registrar looked sceptical, but Widowmaker raised her eyebrows in challenge. The Registrar didn't push it. "Okay... let me see what you— _oh_." She frowned, and glanced up nervously. "Oh. Um. Let me just grab someone."

"Make it quick," Widowmaker called after her, adding to herself in French, "I don't have all day to spend on this _nonsense_."

She was seated on the bench nearby and tabbing through her emails when two uniformed Court Marshalls approached her. "Lena Oxton?" one of them said as they arrived at her bench.

She looked up. "Yes?"

Suddenly, they were lifting her off the bench by her arms. "You're under arrest for unpaid traffic warrants."


	32. Tragedy - Widowmaker x Tracer - SFW

Speed prompt, written in 16 minutes. Prompted on Tumblr: 'tragedy'.

* * *

When Widowmaker wandered into their kitchen to make lunch, she found Lena—who was still in her pyjamas—folded up in the corner of it, _sobbing_.

That was far too much emotion before midday. "I take it that means you haven't emptied the dishwasher," she said flatly, and then went to pointedly do it herself.

Lena promptly stopped sobbing to _glare_ at her. "Oi! You're _supposed_ to ask what's wrong and comfort me, _Widowmaker_!" she told her. "Can't you tell I'm upset?"

Widowmaker gave her a look. "I think the whole street can tell you're upset."

Lena's jaw _dropped._ Her shock only lasted for a second, and then she gave Widowmaker a lip-wibbling, wet-eyed glare and burst into tears again, wailing something mostly incomprehensible about her girlfriend being heartless and _who did she expect she was dating? Someone who'd actually care about her girlfriend's wellbeing?_ etc, etc.

Widowmaker rolled her eyes, sorting the clean cutlery into its place in the drawer. Honestly, this was _ridiculous_. Obviously nothing was genuinely wrong; Lena was quiet and withdrawn when there was really something going on. This over-the-top, attention-seeking display was completely beyond the—

Her eyes fell on their shopping list which _someone_ had left on the bench (instead of putting it back in its proper place, which was on the fridge), and there was an item added to it that wasn't in Widowmaker's elegant cursive. It was scrawled in all-print, all-capitals and underlined: _TAMPONS._

 _Oh_. Suddenly this all ridiculousness made sense. Well, she thought, perhaps she had a moment to visit the supermarket now; some fresh bread wouldn't go astray, either.

Tucking the list in her pocket, she walked out without looking at the mess in the corner.

The mess wasn't happy about that. "What, you're just going to _leave_ me like this?" it called after her, the betrayal audible in its voice.

" _Adieu, Cherie_ ," she called sweetly back, mentally adding 'chocolate' to her list of items to return with.


	33. Old Wounds - Mercy x Widowmaker - SFW

Written in 128 minutes. Still in Talon's grip, Amelie flies hundreds of kilometres to see Dr Ziegler in a day clinic to be treated for a wound she is desperate that Talon not find out about.

* * *

The clinic was always busy this late at night; it was a downtrodden neighbourhood, everyone had hard, physical jobs and no one could afford to heat their houses properly. As a result, half the suburb was sick, especially this close to winter. The waiting room was full of sniffly-nosed children, whimpering babies and stoic, pale-faced adults who'd been trying to soldier on so they didn't miss any hours of work.

 _I'm going to get sick after this_ , Angela thought, wishing she could just leave her mask on. It wasn't professional, though: not smiling at the people who came to see her. Part of seeing a doctor was seeing a friendly face reassuring you that you were going to be fine; often, that was all people needed before she'd send them home to their own beds to recover.

For that reason, it was on nights like these she found herself missing Overwatch. This clinic was certainly a step down from saving the lives of hundreds of soldiers on the battlefield and researching nanotechnology that could revolutionize resuscitation the world over. But it needed to be done, these ill people needed someone to do it, and so here she was: being sneezed on by sick toddlers. Ugh.

After she'd shown the fretting mother of the sneezing toddler out, she'd ducked out of her office to the sink. "Would you mind showing my next patient in?" she called down the hallway to her receptionist while she washed her hands thoroughly. The quicker they could get through the waiting room, the quicker she could go home to her _own_ warm bed.

She'd picked up the next patient file off the heap and was opening as she walked into her room, saying, "Good evening," as she looked up from her—

 _What_? She stopped dead in her tracks, muffling a gasp: even in casual clothes, Amélie LaCroix, or 'Widowmaker', she insisted on being called now, was unmistakable. Angela's ex-close-friend, ex-colleague, now Talon assassin who'd tried more than once to kill her despite how close they used to be, was _sitting on her examination table_ , wearing civilian clothes and staring at the floor.

" _God_!" Angela managed, lifting her hand to the door handle—had Amélie come to kill her?—and what about those poor people in the waiting room? They didn't deserve to—

"I haven't come to kill you, if that's what you're wondering," Amélie told her in a bored, somewhat tired voice. It was clearly the truth.

Well. At least that settled Angela's _first_ concern. She took a steadying breath. "Alright," she said slowly, recovering from her surprise and worrying about what Amélie's other motives might be for showing up here. "What _have_ you come for?"

Amélie looked up at her, nodding at the file in her hands. It had a false name on it. "I filled in all the forms."

Angela wasn't sure she should take her eyes off an assassin—perhaps it was a trick?—but the idea of 'Widowmaker' sitting patiently down and filling in a medical information form was so bizarre that she _did_ take a peek at it. It was actually properly filled in. She'd answered all the usual questions, and written 'minor cut to arm' under ' _please describe your ailment_ '.

It all seemed a bit odd; she didn't want to get her hopes up. Why would Amélie come to _her_ for treatment? Talon had some of the best doctors in the world, it was how she was reconditioned in the first place. "An _arm wound_?"

Amélie nodded, and then gestured down at her arm. Now that Angela looked at them, one of her wrists was a little fatter than the other under the long sleeves of her coat.

"But can't Talon look at that for you?"

"No." She didn't elaborate.

Angela stood there for a moment, one hand on the door knob and the other holding the patient file, wondering what she should do. It really felt very like a trap. Part of her felt like she should rush out and call for help… but the other was at least slightly curious what was going on with that arm. And after all, Amélie—the _old_ Amélie—had to be in there somewhere, under whatever Talon had done to her, didn't she?

Angela couldn't refuse to assist in case there was a chance of recovering the real Amélie. "Well, alright then," she told Amélie, still a little sceptical about her motives. "Remove your coat off and let's take a look at that arm."

Amélie relaxed a little, slowly and gingerly easing her coat off. Her wrist heavily bandaged and, rather than spend a couple of minutes unwrapping it, Angela just cut the bandages off. Underneath was a very shoddily dressed laceration wound. It looked as if someone had wrapped a thin, sharp cord around her wrist and _whipped_ it off quickly, slicing the skin open very deeply on one side. It was healing poorly and probably infected, although it was hard to tell with Amélie's poor skin perfusion. "This should have had stitches," she told Amélie, not impressed. "Who looked at this for you?" She glanced up.

"No one."

Angela's eyebrows jumped. Oh; that explained it. She stood. "Well, it's not going to heal well while your skin isn't getting enough blood flow," she explained. "So whatever Talon usually does to heal you, you're going to need to ask them to—"

Amélie made a frustrated noise. "Didn't you hear me? I _can't._ That's why I'm here." She shifted nervously. "Believe me, _crawling_ back to Overwatch and _begging_ them to heal me is not my idea of fun, but my leg isn't healing, and if I don't get better soon, Talon will find out."

 _Find out what_? Angela wondered, frowning. She didn't ask; Amélie was already impatient enough. "Well, I suppose I can stitch up the wound if you wish, but without proper blood supply, I don't know how you're going to be able to clear the infection that's—"

"Okay, stitch it up." Amélie said, deliberately interrupting her and thrusting her cut wrist forward.

"But it won't work without good perfusion!" Angela tried to explain. "Look, if you'd like me to refer you to a cardiologist who can—"

"No, _doctor,_ I'd like you to do your job."

Angela prickled at that. It took a considerable effort not to snap back at her. "Well, as your doctor, I'm telling you that without blood flow, not only will that laceration not heal regardless of what I do to it, but there's a very good chance that infection will spread and make you _very_ sick," she said. "Look, perhaps _I_ could have a try at speeding your heart up, but I must warn you that cardiology isn't my—"

"No!" Amélie actually sounded quite alarmed by that suggestion. She sobered quickly. "No. Please, stop this ridiculous argument. I just flew an hour to arrive here in this hell-hole for this," she made a rough gesture with the sore arm, "I just need you to fix it. I need it to _go away_. There must be _something_ you can do to make it heal as quickly as possible!"

Angela stood back, frowning at her. She seemed panicked, almost, and all these half-truths… If it had been anyone else, she might have worried that there was someone at home that Amélie was afraid of. Angela had seen enough battered women to know what hasty, panicked requests to fix mysterious injuries usually meant. But 'Widowmaker' _caused_ injuries. She was an assassin; she wasn't someone's innocent wife trapped in a bad marriage. And yet… here she was, _yelling_ at Angela, _begging_ her to fix an injury as quickly as possible before anyone found out. It was all so odd.

Angela exhaled. Well, she could try, at least, couldn't she? "Alright," she said, relenting. "I'll stitch it up for you and give you something for the infection."

It was like relieving a pressure value; Amélie visibly relaxed. "Thank you."

Angela got her suture kit ready; and for all Amélie was essentially her sworn enemy these days, she was a cooperative and still patient. Much more still and cooperative than she'd ever been before Talon, actually. She was so different now.

"Are you on any medications?" Angela wondered aloud while she was swabbing the wound; she'd need to think about what antibiotics to prescribe.

Amélie shrugged.

That made Angela look up. "You don't know if you're on any medications?"

Amélie gave her a tired look. "I don't know what they pump me full of, and I'd hazard a guess that former _Overwatch_ agents didn't know what _you_ were filling them with, either."

Angela was a little insulted. "Of course they did. They signed release forms, every single one of them."

Amélie was a little taken aback at that; clearly that wasn't the answer she'd expected. She recovered quickly. "Just fix my arm."

Angela held her tongue—she had to remind herself Amélie was in pain—and did exactly as instructed; a beautiful, clean row of 12 stitches across Amélie's delicate wrist. "Don't use that hand very much if you can avoid it," she told her as she bandaged it up again. "Keep it as warm as possible: the warmer, the better. And I'll need to give you a script for a broad spectrum antibiotic to take with meals for—"

"No pills. Can't you just inject it into me?"

Angela straightened. This was getting ridiculous; she was going to find it hard to treat someone who didn't give her all the necessary information. Or really, any information at all. And it was especially strange coming from a woman who for years had told her _everything_.

"Amélie," she said gently, watching the woman _flinch_ as she used her old name, "can't you please just tell me what's going on? Perhaps I can help."

She expertly avoided the question. "Can you inject me with whatever you need to or not?"

"Well, I can, but the injections are once a day for five days, and so you'd need to—"

"Okay," she said firmly. "Do it. Then I will come back tomorrow night."

Angela was poised to refuse: she shouldn't go ahead with it. She didn't know what medication Amélie was on. She didn't know how well her liver and kidneys were functioning and it they could even cope with clearing the antibiotics. She opened her mouth to say it—'No, you'll need to get your _real_ doctors to prescribe something for you'—but then, looking at Amélie, she couldn't.

The face in front of hers was so familiar. Blue lips and altered retinas aside, it was so familiar. Older, wearier, but still _Amélie_. The same Amélie who used to take her to all the foreign ballets every time they were in a different city and then try different local wines with her afterwards. The same Amélie who used to ask Angela to help work the knots out of her long, troublesome hair because 'no one else is as gentle as you are'. The same Amélie she'd forced a smile for on the beautiful summers day she'd been married on. Her husband was dead, now. Killed by her, everyone said. Which meant…

 _Don't_ , Angela told herself. _Don't do this_.

She was already doing it. "Okay," she said, relenting. "We can do a course of injections."


	34. Old Wounds 2 - Mercy x Widowmaker - SFW

A followup to Old Wounds #1. I intelligently forgot to time it; it probably took about 2 hours.

* * *

Angela was wondering when Amélie would return. She'd been thinking about it all day; and every time she'd popped out into the clinic waiting room to invite the next patient in, she found herself scanning the crowd, wondering if she'd spy a familiar cyanotic face amongst them.

At lunch time, she'd nearly forgotten to actually _eat_ her lunch, instead gazing blankly into it and wondering if Amélie needed a special diet now with what Talon had done to her; Amélie had _always_ loved exploring all the interesting new restaurants in whichever location Overwatch posted Gérard in.

It was impossible _not_ to wonder about Amélie's condition and what it meant for her—not the wrist injury, however mysterious—but how Talon managed to stabilise her shock in such a way as to have it not to cause her lasting damage. It was actually a pretty impressive feat of medical technology, she decided, and she found herself wondering how they managed it, and why Amélie had been so afraid when Angela had offered to cure her.

 _They must be doing something awful to her if she's that afraid of them_ , Angela decided, pumping air into a blood pressure cuff on her current patient's arm while she considered it. Well, of course Talon were doing something awful; they'd kidnapped her, subjected her to god knows what to turn her against all the people who loved her. Of course she was terrified of them.

Angela only realised she'd been gazing into the nether and worrying about what Amélie must be subjected to when she released the pressure in her patient's cuff and completely forgotten to listen for a pulse.

Whoops. She needed to focus. "Sorry," she said sheepishly to the grizzled, red-eyed man who was frowning at her. "I didn't quite catch that, I'm going to have to do it again." He didn't look impressed.

By midnight when she'd finished with her last patient, locked all the doors and bid farewell to her faithful receptionist, Amélie still hadn't turned up.

She cast her eyes around the waiting room one last time—maybe Amélie had been waiting for everyone to leave?—but it was completely deserted. She was the only person here. She exhaled at length, and walked reluctantly back to her room to hang up her white coat for the night.

 _I don't know what you were expecting, Angela_ , she told herself as opened the door. _You knew as soon as Gérard was killed that she was lost to you for—_

"Good Evening, doctor."

Angela jumped, her heart nearly bursting out of her ribcage; Amélie was waiting _in_ her room, leaning a shoulder against the wall, arms and ankles crossed. She casually pushed herself upright as Angela entered.

"Goodness!" Angela put a hand on her chest, taking a steadying breath and trying her hardest to smother a big, elated smile: _she came back_! "How did you get in?! The doors are already locked!"

Amélie scoffed. "I'm an assassin," she said simply. She was already working off the bandage on her wrist.

She seemed fine, really, Angela observed; apart from the persistent cyanosis. And her… wrist looked like it was _actually healing_ , too. The wound had sealed; it was quite encouraging. She probed around the stitches a little for tenderness anyway, searching for signs of lingering infection. Amélie didn't even flinch.

That was odd; she should have, it should have hurt at least a little. It made Angela wonder about her about what sort of painkillers Talon might be giving her. "Your condition," Angela asked, gesturing at Amélie's whole body and then swabbing the wound in preparation to redress it, "how does it feel? Is it uncomfortable?"

Amélie shrugged.

It was an odd reaction. "You don't feel thirsty? Or anxious? Or—"

"I don't feel at all."

 _Definitely very strong painkillers_ , Angela decided, and wondered what they were doping her up with as she bandaged the wound and gave Amélie the antibiotic shot.

Afterwards, instead of immediately disappearing like she had last night, Amélie wandered around Angela's consultation room at a slow, leisurely pace, examining every inch of it. All the anatomy posters, the eye chart, the photo of Torbjörn and her at Halloween on her desk… everything. It made Angela nervous.

Something in particular on her desk caught Amélie's attention. A smug grin on her pale face, she reached out and picked up a sheet of paper. "'Sixty-year-old male'," she read, "'fever, headaches, persisting one week. Requesting advice about how he can recover quickly and return to work.' Hah." Her tone was mocking. "Even _I_ could tell that man to stay in bed."

Angela swallowed. "He doesn't get sick leave," she felt like she needed to explain. "He was worried about how he was going to afford food if he didn't recover soon."

Amélie laughed once, and dropped the piece of paper back on her table. "Simply ground-breaking work you're doing here, doctor."

That struck Angela like a slap in the face. She'd thought the same thing many times, but coming from Amélie, it felt like an insult. "It's ground-breaking for the people who are worried about their health, Amélie."

Amélie looked directly at her. "All one hundred of them," she said. "It's a bit of a step down from the millions you could be saving it you were working in a _real_ job."

 _Oof_ , that wasn't fair! "Well, Overwatch was defunded, Amélie," she said a bit brusquely. "And after all that disgrace, what sort of university do you think would hire an ex—"

"Talon has a research program," Amélie told her, "and it's a thousand times more advanced than Overwatch's ever was. They're always looking for good doctors."

W-Was that what… _No._ Angela's stomach dropped into her feet. Was _that_ what all this was about? Not about seeing her after all…? "Are you trying to _recruit_ me?" she asked, feeling like she'd just had a knife plunged deep into her chest. "Is that what you're here for? Are you asking me to voluntarily join the people who did _this_ to you? Someone who I—"

"No. I'm just saying you can't possibly be happy wiping runny noses and telling sick men they'll be fine when you could be saving millions upon millions of lives."

Angela felt every hair on her body stand on end. "There's joy to be found in the little things, Amélie," she said defensively. "When someone smiles at you and thanks you for helping them with their—"

" _Pfft_ ," Amélie said, interrupting her. "You wouldn't need to try so hard to search for this little joys if you were doing something you _really_ wanted to be doing." She took a step up to Angela; Angela had forgotten she was just that little bit taller. "You are forgetting that I know you, _doctor_."

"Not as well as you think, apparently," she lied, feeling like she was close to saying something nasty that she'd regret. "I _am_ happy here, so you can tell Talon I'm not interested. I'm going home—you can show yourself out!"

Angela grabbed her bag and exited the building fast enough not to hear another word out of Amélie; feeling _stupid_. So, so stupid. Amélie _hadn't_ come to see her, after all; she squeezed her eyes shut for a moment against the knife _twisting_ in her chest. Of course it was just some Talon ploy, there was nothing left there, in her. Nothing of her old friend, and _definitely_ nothing else that might have been…

And yet…

 _No,_ she tried to tell herself firmly. _She's gone, Angela. You knew that a long time ago_.

But… she _had_ seemed genuinely afraid Talon would find out about her wound…?

 _Stop it_ , she begged herself. _Just stop it._

Angela's route home passed by a supermarket—and since there was nothing in her fridge she ducked inside to grab a frozen dinner.

The store was deserted at this time of night; it was eerie walking up and down the aisles in the fluorescent lights all alone. She was just chastising herself for wondering _again_ what Amélie ate these days when she found herself passing by the alcohol section.

She paused, looking down it. Maybe…?

 _Not tonight, Angela_ , she told herself, but immediately found herself thinking _, oh, please_! _Of all nights, tonight is the very night it's okay to drink_! She debated the whole point with herself—and had just _finally_ managed to say a firm 'no' and was turning briskly around to go and pay for her dinner before she changed her mind, when she nearly collided with someone.

It was no surprise who it was, but she still yelped. " _Amélie_!" She was holding something familiar, and when Angela realised what it was, it completely silenced her.

Amélie presented her with it. " _This_ is the label you drink, isn't it?"

She was holding the same brand of wine Angela had bought from this supermarket last night.

Mutely, Angela accepted it from her, feeling sick with what that meant.

"I know you want to buy it, Angela."

God. "Stop," she managed. " _Please_."

She didn't expect Amélie to stop. She expected her to go in for the kill, to say triumphantly, 'happy people don't drink a whole bottle of wine on a weeknight, do they?', to _laugh_ at her and at what she'd become. To try and maybe succeed in bringing her to tears; oh, was she capable of it. Angela knew the cruelty Amélie was capable of since Talon abducted her, she'd seen it so many times.

Which is why it absolutely floored her when Amélie didn't do _any_ of that. She just took a step back from Angela. "Very well," was all she said. "See you tomorrow night, doctor."

Angela stood in place, silent, as Amélie walked casually out of the store, hips swinging.


	35. New Ride - MercyPharah - SFW, CRACK

Speed prompt, written in 50 minutes. From the prompt, "Everything is the same, except that Fareeha wakes up one morning an discovers she is now a centaur". CRACK.

* * *

"You're a what?" Angela's voiced straddled two octaves as she hurriedly sat up in bed, phone against her ear. Surely she'd misheard that?

Fareeha's voice on the line sounded less shocked. "Maybe that's the wrong word? I'm not sure what it is in English. I think you should come and see for yourself. I'm not really sure how to explain it."

Angela had never dressed so fast in her life and she was down the other end of the ship in less than five minutes, knocking smartly on Fareeha's door. "It's me!"

"You'd better open it."

Angela opened the door a crack and peeked in, expecting to see Fareeha sitting up in her bed, perhaps looking ill. But that wasn't what she saw. The bed itself was snapped clean in half, and bundled up in the centre of the broken bed and bent mattress was Fareeha and a very, very large mass hidden under the blankets. Fareeha looked paler than usual.

Angela eyed the mass. "What's that?" It looked like there was an animal under her blankets with her.

Looking stricken, Fareeha slowly pulled back the blankets, and Angela saw horse legs and a horse body and—a tail?—why did Fareeha have a horsesleeping in her bed with the body was attached to hers.

There was a horse body attached to Fareeha's torso.

'Centaur' hadn't been the wrong word after all.

"What on—!" Angela rushed up to it, instinctively putting out her hand to the dark, shaggy body to feel it. It felt real. "Am I hallucinating…? I must be hallucinating. Or still dreaming…?"

"I'm afraid not," Fareeha said tiredly, much too calmly for someone who woke up attached to a horse. "I was hoping you could explain it."

Angela blinked. "Why would I be able to explain it?"

"Well, you're the one who does all those genetic experiments on—"

"Not on you!" Angela stood back, a hand over her mouth for a moment, trying to think. There was a selection of animal DNA on ice in the archive bunker under the lab, but she hadn't touched it for years, not since her facility was decommissioned. She could barely afford to keep the lab running on the meagre funding Winston managed to find for her to continue to provide nanotech for the team—there wasn't enough to be doing any sort of special research, and there was absolutely no way the animal DNA could possibly have gotten mixed up in her nanotech, no way.

"Well," Fareeha said, exhaling at length, rubbing her eyes and staring down at her new body, "not that I didn't sometimes dream of being a horse when I was a little girl, but can you fix it?"

Angela looked blankly at her. "You know, curing 'centaur' is not exactly they taught me in medical school."

They both stared at the horse body for a few seconds.

"So what you're saying is that I'm stuck like this, then," Fareeha said flatly.

"Well, at least until we can figure out how you ended up like that in the first place, because that would be the first clue in how to reverse it," Angela told her, shaking her head. "I just can't work it out. No one else uses my lab, it can't be a mix-up."

"Talon?" Fareeha suggested.

Angela shook her head. Turning people into centaurs wasn't their style. "You'd be dead if they'd been in my lab."

They thought for a moment, before Fareeha asked, "Well, has anyone else been in there at all? Anyone?"

Angela was still shaking her head, "Not that I recall," she was saying trying to think back over the past few weeks. "At least, not into the actual lab. Sometimes people duck into clinic area there to grab medical supplies out of the fridge, but I don't know how horse DNA would get into those?"

"We should probably check the logs anyway," Fareeha suggested and then awkwardly tested her legs like a foal standing for the first time. She was a little shaky on them, but when she managed to get upright, she was really tall. Much taller than she'd been before—her head nearly touched the low ceiling of the ship cabin. She was enormous—and, well, rather majestic, actually.

She was also peering all the way down at Angela with a wry grin. "I could get used to this," she said, and then looked thoughtful. "Hey, you think you could splice me some wings, too? That would complete my childhood daydreams. Why be just a horse when I could be a flying horse?"

Who else but Fareeha would joke about a situation such as this!? Angela had to laugh. "You may have wanted to be a horse, but I always wanted toown a horse when I was a little girl," she told her, "but the boarding school never let me get one. They said horse-riding was too dangerous and wasn't covered by their insurance."

There was a twinkle in Fareeha's eye. "Well, you're not at school now," she said with a grin, and extended her hand down to Angela.


	36. East End 5 - Tracer(POV)xWidowmaker

Obviously, set after Chapters 1-4 :3

* * *

Widowmaker's face was right up in mine, and while I was busy worrying about that creepy smile of hers and all the horrible things it meant she was about to try and do to me, I didn't notice what she was doing with her hands until I heard a pronounced 'click'.

I looked up my arms: she'd handcuffed me to the radiator pipe above my head.

Well, colour me _not_ surprised. Who was I dealing with again? "Oh, of course, you just happen to have _handcuffs_ on you."

"Please. I am an assassin."

"Yes, but I always thought you were more of an I-shoot-people-from-five-miles-away-type assassin rather than an I-handcuff-people-to-things-type assassin."

"I'm whatever I need to be," she told me, making it sound _way_ dirtier than it needed to, "to get what I want." She sat back across my hips, skirt hitched up around the top of her thighs as she sat across me. I think it must have been like that on purpose, because she looked dead smug about it when she realised where I was looking.

It was _annoying_ ; if she was going to try and kill me, she could at least stop messing about with me beforehand! "You won't get away with this, you know," I informed her, trying to make sure I looked at her face. "I bet someone's already told the police, and Winston has a patch in on London patrol comms."

She laughed. Well, it was more of a kind dark chuckle. "Get away with what?" she asked me. " _You're_ the one that upset a table and drew your blasters on a _poor, innocent, sweet comtesse who was just trying to enjoy her tea_ …" She said the last part in her sweetest and most innocent tone of voice.

It almost made me gag. "No one could possibly think you're anything but _despicable_."

There was that signature smug grin again. "And yet you are choosing to have dinner with me."

I scoffed. "I'm only here to try and figure out what you're up to, _Widowmaker_! Someone's got to keep an eye on you!"

"Well, your eyes are certainly on me," she said pointedly, leaning over me and nearly giving me a faceful of her cleavage as she reached slowly above my head.

I couldn't figure out why she'd done that until she sat back up and I saw one of my blasters in—what was she— "Oi! Put that down!"

She raised an eyebrow at me, not putting it down. Instead, she carefully examined it like she was inspecting a fragile specimen at a museum or something. "How crude," was her assessment.

"I'll have you know I could kill you with that!"

She looked sceptical. "I don't even think I could kill _you_ with it."

"It's more powerful than it looks, you know! Each one of those lasers packs the same punch as a 9mm!"

 _Now_ she looked interested in it. "Really," she said, and then fit it into her hand to see how it felt.

Suddenly, I got why she hadn't brought her _own_ gun. She was probably planning on using mine all along, wasn't she?! "Oh, that's nice," I said sarcastically. "Kill a girl with her own guns."

She gave me a long, tired look. I found it rather patronising. "You still think that's what this is, chérie? A murder?"

"Well, what else would it be?" I shot back at her. "A church fete? You are an assassin, after all, and I _am_ your sworn enemy! Of course it's a murder!" I paused, realising how that sounded. "Well, an attempted murder, anyway."

"I am a professional," she said with disdain. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead _long_ before you knew it was me who fired the bullet."

She kept on saying that sort of thing, but I was yet to see more than one anonymous assassination out of her. Plus, I'd fought with her _loads_ of times when she could have shot me but wanted to make sure she could parade triumphantly around me for ages beforehand. "That's rubbish, you _love_ messing about with people first!"

"So that's what this is, is it?" she asked tiredly. "Me 'messing about' with you before I _kill_ you?"

Before I could answer, she pushed the nose of my gun into my neck. "Well, now that you mention it, shooting you with your own gun does have a kind of poetry to it," she murmured, her thumb stroking the side of my blaster. "There are so many things I could do with it that I'm not sure which I prefer more. I could shoot you here," she pressed the gun against my neck, "and you would die here on this floor, suffocated by your own blood. Or, I could shoot you here," she moved to point the gun at my glowing Chronal Accelerator, "and you would simply disappear again. Flickering in and out of time." A sound outside caught her attention; she appeared to ignore it, slowly bending forwards over me again, her face up close to mine. She smelt like sweet wine. Oh no, she was about to kiss me again, wasn't she!? I held my breath. "Or," she said, her cool breath tickling my lips, "I could shoot you _here_ , and let someone else do the work for me." She smiled.

Why was she—?

It all happened so quickly; I heard my blaster fire, the pressure on my wrists eased and then suddenly I was flipped over again, on top of her. Underneath me, she suddenly didn't look smug at all. Her grin was completely gone. She looked—

— _frightened_? What—?

"Help!" she cried out in her regular old Amélie voice. "Help me!"

I didn't know what was—

" _Put your hands in the air_!" A megaphone-boosted voice ordered me from the door of the restaurant.

I snapped my head up and looked to where it was coming from; the front door was wide open and there were several officers pointing their guns right at me. 'Put my hands…?' I looked down at them. They were free; Widowmaker must've shot those handcuff off with my blaster.

Well, good. I straightened, I pointed down at her. "Don't worry!" I yelled back, trying to explain. " _She's_ the one who started this, not me! I'm the good guy! A moment ago she had me in handcuffs and was about to murder me!"

Widowmaker pretended to weakly struggle underneath me, ignoring everything I'd said and putting on her best damsel in distress voice. "Oh, please, won't somebody help me?"

I scoffed at it—I mean, _look_ at her—but the officers weren't playing about. They'd clearly bought her act, which was bad news for me. "This is your last warning, Ma'am," the constable said to me, megaphone in one hand and gun in the other. "Put your hands in the air or we will be forced to open fire!"

I grimaced. "Okay, okay, I know how this looks," I reasoned, trying to placate them, "but this is all a big misunderstanding, really. This person I've got right here is wanted in like thirty countries for crimes against the—"

" _This is your last warning_!"

I happened to glance down at Widowmaker while I was trying to figure out what on earth I should do, and noticed her expression. There was a ghost of a smile on her lips. She was _enjoying_ this.

She locked eyes with me, giving me her best 'terrified' expression. "Please, officers!" she said, still looking dead at me. "Please, save me from this _awful_ woman!"

I narrowed my eyes. _Oh, you filthy little…_ That was it, I'd had it with this woman, I _swear_ , I was going to _bloody—_

A series of bullets whistled past my head. They were almost definitely warning shots rather than a real attempt to kill me, but when I looked up and saw all those barrels pointed right at me, it was like a reflex, I blinked out the way.

Doing that had the unfortunate side effect of basically making me look like some super villain with special powers, though, because all the police _gasped_ and then there were panicked bullets spraying everywhere.

I ducked behind a pillar, peeking around it. "No! Stop firing, there's been a big mistake!"

They weren't listening to me, though. They were beckoning at Widowmaker. "Quickly! Come over to us!" they were saying. "You'll be safe here, we'll take care of you!"

I made an actual gagging noise. _That woman_. I stole a quick peek at them and saw the policemen all gathered around her, protecting her and fawning over her like she was some sort of _brave survivor_ or something and trying to escort her out. She was playing along. "I was so frightened," she said, glancing over at me to make sure I was watching. "That woman is so scary, please lock her up for a very, very long time…"

You _had_ to be kidding me… I gave her the tiredest bloody look.

It appeared to entertain her more than it did anything else, though, but the policemen didn't notice the smile she was giving me. One of them was gently patting her back. "We'll take care of her, don't you worry. What's your name, Ma'am?" His colleague was already tapping away at a tablet beside them.

"It's Amélie LaCroix!" I shouted over to them. "L-A-C-R-O-I-X! Otherwise known as Widowmaker! She's wanted for—"

The policeman with the tablet stopped suddenly. He was reading something from it. "—for _thirteen homicides_ in the same number of months _._ ' _Amélie LaCroix was added to the international watch list in 2056 after a series of charges were laid against her in Switzerland_...'" Even from this distance, I could see there was a photo on his screen.

It happened in slow motion: all the policemen looked from the photo to Widowmaker, eyes widening. It was clearly the same person.

That smile she'd been smugly directing at me abruptly faded.

 _Hah, time's up_! I thought indulgently, this time giving _her_ my own smug grin.

Before the penny dropped and the policemen could snatch her, though, she extended her hand up toward a high window in the entrance. Something shot out from under the wrist of her blouse. "Adieu, chérie," she said calmly, blowing me a kiss just before she smoothly grappled out of the open window.

All the policemen stared at the window for a second, stunned. "Get her!" the constable shouted, scrambling to pull himself together. A couple of the policemen ran out the door.

I stepped out from behind the pillar, feeling _pretty_ smug. I probably had a bit of a swagger. "I _told_ you!" I said primly to them. " _I_ was simply trying to do my civic duty as a citizen of this fine country to make sure that _Widowmaker_ didn't—"

He pointed at me, too. "And her! Get them both!"

 _What_? "But I didn't do anything!" I tried to protest, blinking out of the way of the policemen charging at me. They turned, trying to figure out where I'd gone. I was behind them. "Honest, I was just trying to make sure _she_ didn't— _ugh_!" One of them spun right around and tried to snatch me. He missed.

I could already see them reaching for their guns again and that was _bad_ news if they were this close. Clearly, I was going to have to bail on this particular party and hope that later it became clear who the _real_ villain was. I blinked over to my blasters, grabbed them, and blinked out onto the balcony again, skidding over to the edge and looking down at the ground below. Could I make it?

"That's a long jump for such a small woman," a voice said from one of the balconies above me. Widowmaker was reclining calmly on a railing watching me; when I looked up, she gave me a little wave with her fingers.

Ugh. "Oh, sod off!" I told her flatly. "This is all your bloody fault!"

She examined her nails. "I'm not the one that flipped over a restaurant table and pulled her guns on an unarmed woman."

 _Oh, you had to be—_ "Pulling my guns on a wanted terrorist is hardly the same as threatening an innocent woman!"

"I was innocently eating my dinner," she said in a very un-innocent voice.

"You were baiting me was what _you_ were doing!" I corrected her, remembering the stockinged foot creeping up the inside of my trousers, the wink, and the kisses before that…

"Is that what you're going to tell the police when they catch you? That I 'baited' you to destroy a restaurant and scare all those people?"

I scoffed at her. I'd had enough of this, I needed to get out of here. "Look, seeing as this is all _your_ fault, are you going to stand up there watching me or are you going to redeem yourself by helping me get across this gap here?"

She batted her eyelashes and didn't move a single bloody muscle.

Of course she bloody didn't. I put my hands on my hips. "Oh, nice, you get me in trouble with the police on purpose and then don't even help me escape?"

"You didn't have any trouble escaping across it after I kissed you before," she pointed out with an oh-so sweet smile, and was about to say something else completely uncalled for when a bullet whizzed past her head and shut her up. She ducked, wide-eyed and searching for where it had come from.

At the balcony door, two policemen were aiming their guns at us.

Uh oh. I needed to get out of here, pronto.

I jumped over the railing because she sort of had a point: I _had_ made the opposite balcony before, hadn't I? With three blinks I made it this time, too— _just_. I needed to grab the railing to stop me from toppling over it, though, and let me tell you, with bullets whizzing all about me it was _not_ that easy. It was rather impressive, actually, if I do say so myself.

Fortunately, the door to balcony I'd landed on was unlocked and there was no one home. I pulled it open and ran through the house, mentally apologising to the poor people who lived here and were going to get home to their balcony door being wide open.

Then, I had a thought. What happened if someone burgled this house because _I'd_ left the balcony door open while I was trying to escape from the police? I stopped in place. I didn't want to be the cause of a burglary. I should fix that, shouldn't I?

I took a quick detour back to close the balcony door and lock it so robbers couldn't break in. Then, I went back to rushing out the front door (stopping for a tick to check that was locked too), through the hallways and up several flights of fire stairs that opened a roof top. _Perfect_. Police usually had big trouble trailing people up here. I checked about for helicopters, though, just in case.

I couldn't see any flying about in the thick London smog, but what I _could_ see though was the tail end of one Call Sign: Widowmaker as she grappled across the gap between two buildings and disappeared down onto another rooftop.

 _I should follow her_ , I thought, thinking she'd probably lead me back to Talon and it would be handy to know where their hideout was in London. That would certainly make Winston less angry with me for being in trouble with the police _again_.

But… doing that sort of thing was what'd gotten me into this situation in the first place. I was already knee-deep in it with the law already, did I _really_ want to make things worse?

Below me, sirens were already blaring in the laneways, and there were red and blue lights flashing all over the walls of every building. I put my hands on my hips, watching all the police cars pulling up in front of the posh restaurant. There were a lot of them, which meant I was probably going to be in a lot of trouble again.

Oh, who was I kidding? If I was going to cop it anyway (hah!), I might as well have something to show for it, am I right? I should _definitely_ follow her.

Turning, I blinked across the gap between the buildings and followed where I'd seen her heading.

It actually wasn't that hard to follow her trail. Her grapple left white streaks where it scratched the stone, and she must have been in a big old rush to get out of there, because she was leaving them _everywhere_. It was rather sloppy, if you ask me.

I followed them across the buildings, trying to imagine where they could be headed. I couldn't think what a Talon hideout might look like around _this_ end of London. All the houses were pretty squashy, so unless they'd set up shop in, well, a _shop_ , Talon's base was probably in some dodgy little flat like mine somewhere. Hah, it was funny to think about Talon cramming a prima donna like Widowmaker into a little bedsit above a Chinese take away.

The white scrapes stopped at an industrial-looking skylight, and when I dropped down through it, expecting to fall right down into Talon's London Lair, I found myself in a—

—a _car park_?

I stood, frowning. It looked a bit familiar, but not really the sort of place I'd imagined Talon would—

"What took you so long?"

I jumped, holding up my blasters. Widowmaker was leaning on the boot of her expensive black car, arms crossed. She certainly didn't look like she was about to attack me. In fact, she was smiling.

I lowered my blasters. "What are you on about, 'took so long'? I just followed you halfway across—" Wait… Those white streaks in the stone… "— _oh_."

Her smile deepened. She pushed off her car and wandered forward; I backed away from her until I hit someone else's car. Its alarm went off and made me jump _again_.

You wouldn't have thought Widowmaker even noticed. She was too busy _staring_ at me as she hauled me up against someone's little hatchback and towered over me.

Uh oh. "I should shoot you right now for getting me in trouble with the police!" I managed, pushing my blasters into the soft skin of her stomach.

"Pfft, like you're not completely capable of getting in trouble with them all by yourself," she told me dispassionately. Then, she circled my Chronal Accelerator slowly with an index finger. "But enough of that."

I opened my mouth to protest, but she kissed me with those cold lips again. This time, her tongue was cool against mine, too.

I just stood there, wide-eyed and blinking, being passionately kissed against a honking, flashing car by a woman who I'd been 100% certain was plotting to murder me.

It was hard to focus on the 'wanted to murder me' part of that, though, because her fingers were toying with one of the buttons on my shirt. I was torn between pistol-smacking that bloody hand away from me, and sort of wondering what would happen if she _did_ undo them.

She didn't, though. She left it, leaning back and very slowly and deliberately licking her lips like she'd eaten something really delicious. It made me uncomfortable. The whole thing made me uncomfortable. I shouldn't kissing her, for Chrissake, I should be fighting with her! Talon was my enemy! It was getting harder and harder to link this to some megalomaniacal Talon plot, though.

For the first time that evening, it seriously occurred to me that Talon might have absolutely nothing to do with tonight. After all, why would Talon want Widowmaker to have tea with me and kiss me? Which meant—

She saw my expression. "Still think I'm 'messing about' with you before I kill you?" she asked knowingly.

I gulped. I couldn't look away from her. Suddenly, everything made sense: her making sure I saw her in her bra. Her _flirting_ with me like there was no tomorrow. The fact that while she clearly enjoyed a different sort of 'messing about' with me, not once had she made a single attempt to actually hurt me.

Oh no. No, I didn't think this was about killing me anymore.

She could tell, and she spent a moment indulgently staring at my lips—was she going to kiss me again?—before she bloody _didn't_ kiss me again, and stepped back.

She laughed once; there was something infuriatingly triumphant about it. "Let's do this again sometime," she said casually, like we'd just come back from a nice trip to the pictures or something, and like she hadn't been tantalisingly close to _ravishing_ me.

Then, she climbed into her stupidly expensive car, calmly fixed her lippy, and drove off. I watched her car disappear around the corner of the exit ramp, jaw open.

When I finally exhaled and closed my jaw, I could still feel her waxy lipstick on my mouth.

It actually took me a few seconds to pull myself back together, because I felt _completely_ out of it, suddenly.

What on earth had just happened to me?! I'd just nipped out to do a spot of shopping, and ended up having tea with Widowmaker and she _hadn't_ tried to kill me. Well, not really. I hadn't really tried to kill her, either. There had been kissing too—quite a lot of it, actually. And despite destroying a restaurant, scaring a lot of people and landing myself in trouble with the police, it was becoming sort of clear what I'd really spend my afternoon doing.

Great Scott, I'd just been on a proper date with _Widowmaker_ , hadn't I?!


	37. Old Wounds 3 - Mercy x Widowmaker

Sequel to Old Wounds, chapters 1 & 2, written in 102 minutes.

* * *

Angela wondered if Amélie had followed her home. She didn't think so, but she looked upwards at rooftops as she walked anyway, checked behind her when she turned corners, and listened for sounds between her own footsteps. She heard nothing; it was the early hours of the morning in a residential neighbourhood, so of course she heard nothing. She was probably alone. She certainly _felt_ alone.

She hadn't really noticed it before—that loneliness. On her way home, she was normally thinking about Mr So-and-so and wondering if the antibiotics had helped, or remembering an episode of a serial she'd watched the day before, or, sometimes, wondering where the rest of the old Overwatch crew were. _How_ they were, and making idle plans to visit them.

But now, as she let herself into her tired little apartment and slipped off her shoes, it really hit her how quiet and empty her place was.

 _Amélie's right about drinking this by myself_ , she thought, holding the neck of her bottle and walking barefoot into the kitchen to get a glass while she zapped her frozen dinner in the microwave. _It's a little telling, isn't it_?

 _Then again_ , she thought as she poured herself a glass, _maybe I'm only drinking it by myself because I'm actually by myself, and it doesn't mean anything about me being unhappy?_

She sat down at the table with her instant dinner and glass of wine, taking a mouthful of food and staring blankly out her living room window. _Was_ she unhappy?

 _Not unhappy_ , _exactly_ , she decided, stirring her food absently with her fork. _Just_ …

Well, she didn't expect to be here like this, did she? Her professors at medical school used to wax poetic about her bright future, and when she joined Overwatch, that's how she felt: that she was going to _change the world_. That her ideas—so many ideas!—would become reality and be rolled out to the millions of people who needed them. That years down the track she would be standing on stage to a chorus of _thunderous_ applause as someone handed her Nobel Peace Prize for her breakthroughs in trauma medicine. That people would stop her on the street to tearfully thank her for saving their husband, or their daughter, or their father, with her technology. That she'd go to bed at night knowing she'd helped make the world a better place.

Instead, she was sitting here drinking alone after finishing a late shift at a drop-in clinic.

She stared down into her wine. _Alright, maybe Amélie has a point_ , she thought, and then just drank the rest of the bottle. So she was unhappy, now what? Did Amélie just expect her to turn around and say 'Okay, I'll join Talon' after what Talon had done to Amélie? An organisation that Amélie herself was half-running away from for medical treatment?

It was ludicrous, absolutely ludicrous. If Amélie claimed to know Angela like she did, how could she ever believe that Angela would join an organisation that had done such things to her friend?

Angela didn't understand, but she couldn't stop thinking about it. She couldn't focus on the chores she had to do around the house—she ended up putting clean clothes right back in the washing machine—and when it came to following the terrible TV serial she always watched to relax before bed, she missed most of the dialogue and then had no idea what was going on. All she could think about was why Amélie would want her to join Talon—and, well, Amélie herself. Why she was here, what she wanted from Angela.

 _Some things never change_ , Angela thought to herself, sighing. A decade later, and she was _still_ unable to stop thinking about Amélie.

Turning off the TV—it was a lost cause, she couldn't focus on it—she had a big glass of water and then wandered into her bedroom. When she went to close the blinds to change into her pyjamas, though, her hand paused on the drawing cord as she faced the window.

What if Amélie _was_ watching her right now?

 _Ridiculous_ , she thought, scoffing at herself, _I must be drunk_. _As if Amélie would have any interest in spying on me all evening!_

And yet…

There was something… about that idea.

After all, she knew Amélie had spent _some_ time secretly watching her, because otherwise, how would Amélie know which wine Angela had purchased last night? Amélie _could_ very well be watching her right now, and there was something appealing about the thought of Amélie perched on a nearby rooftop, peering through a magnified rifle scope at her window.

It was even more interesting to imagine _why_ she'd do that. It couldn't be part of Talon's plan if Talon didn't even know she was here, so it must be for her own private purposes. Realistically, Angela didn't know what those purposes could be, but… well, she knew what she _hoped_ they were.

If Amélie had been watching her for this long, what did she hope to see…?

Angelia was still quite tipsy; if she hadn't have been, she probably would have talked herself out of all of this nonsense, closed the blind, and gone to bed. But she _was_ tipsy, and so she didn't talk herself out of it.

Instead, she left the blind up and slowly unbuttoned her work shirt.

It was ridiculous. She was being ridiculous. It was far more likely her grizzled neighbours would see her than Amélie would, and yet… here she was, slowly shrugging off her shirt in front of an open window.

Underneath, she had a rather nice bra on—pale blue and, ironically, French lace. If Amélie was watching, Angela wondered what she thought of it. Amélie had always liked pretty underwear, too; they used to go to high-end retailers in Paris together and fawn over the designer sets. Amélie had never seen her in one, though.

Well, if she was watching, she had now.

After Angela had stood like that for a moment, she took a little breath and reached around her back to undo the clasp, pausing a moment before she finally let the lace fall down her arms.

She was standing here, in front of the window, topless. Amélie had never seen this, either. Angela had no idea if there was any chance she was watching now, but _god_ it felt good to imagine she was. To imagine she liked what she saw and that she'd go home and think about it.

Thinking of Amélie watching her, thinking of Amélie's eyes on her skin, it was electrifying. It woke something in her that she'd long since put to sleep—a hunger in her that she'd sensibly abandoned in a city full of people she didn't know or trust.

She pulled out her ponytail, too, and let her blonde hair fall over her pale shoulders, looking down her front and imagining Amélie drinking it all in.

She felt 25 again. Like she'd just been introduced to this _beautiful_ and enigmatic French girl with legs that went for eternity. God, it felt so good.

She could hardly bear to put her pyjamas on, but in the end, she couldn't just stand in front of her window half-naked all night. She was tired, a little drunk, and probably upsetting her neighbours. So, she reluctantly dressed, tucked herself in bed and resolved to try and sleep.

If Amélie _had_ been watching, she wondered what her appointment at the clinic was going to be like tomorrow night.


	38. Plaything - ReaderWidowmaker - NSFW

Written in 58 minutes. I hate it when people assume Widowmaker is sexually available to them, okay? :|

* * *

It's been a hard day on site with the boys, you're tired, you're sweaty, and you can't wait to head back home for a shower. It's a long trip back, though, so you think you'll have a quick one at the pub before you start the trip.

It's a dingy old place, this pub; the lighting is terrible and it smells like men's locker room because it's always filled with boys from the local worksites. It's loud, it's ugly, but it's always been great place to unwind.

Tonight, though, there's a woman there. She's in the corner stall sitting in the dark; you don't reckon anyone else had noticed her. She'd be surrounded by men if they had. You have to get a bit closer to get a good look at her: she's so pale she looks almost blue in this lighting, she's skinny as fuck (not your preference), but her tits are basically hanging out of her dominatrix-style spandex top which makes up for the skinny thing. Obviously, she wants it. There's no other reason she'd been in a place like this dressed like that, right?

You know, suddenly you can think of other ways you'd like to unwind.

You spend a couple of seconds sipping on you beer and watching her—got to make sure there's no boyfriend, right?—but it's only when she stands up to get another drink that you notice how fucking perfect that ass is. Yeah, that 10/10 ass definitely makes up for the small tits and skinny thing. You've made your mind up.

Grabbing your half-finished beer, you push away from the bar and walk up to the woman. She looks up as you do and her expression changes. You can't read it.

"Hey, beautiful," you say, using 'honey' because some hormonal bitch went off at you for calling her 'honey' last month, "I haven't seen you here before!"

You still can't read her. "That's probably because I haven't been here before." She has a French accent.

You fan your arms out. "Well, this is your welcome party!" you laugh a couple of times, and then sit down across from her. "So you're French? What's your name?"

She's watching you. "Is that important?"

Oh, she definitely wants it. You laugh again. "I guess not!" You take a swig of your beer. "I'm going to call you… what's a French name? I'm not sure I know any French names." You try to think. There was that movie, wasn't there? What was it, again?

"How about you don't call me at all?"

You have to look pretty hard at her after that one; you're not sure if trying to get rid of you or not. In the end, you decide 'or not', because she's leaning forward on the table showing you most of those beautiful little tits and everything else she'd said so far has been a big green light. Her just being here, wearing that dominatrix suit is a green light. She's probably playing hard to get; she seems like a bit of a bitch so she probably wants it hard—in bed and out of it.

"I don't have to call you after if you don't want, beautiful," you say, leaning forward, too. "It can just a once off."

She spends a good few seconds watching you through narrow eyes before she rolls them and stands up. She gets up and pretends to leave—but she glances at you on the way past—and that little glance is the go-ahead. She wants you to stop her.

You do: by reaching out and pinching that perfect ass. It's exactly how you expected it to be: firm, but soft. Full. Man, you'd like to have all of it in your hands and a little something in between it.

She freezes.

For a second, you wonder if she's going to throw her drink on you—she doesn't.

Instead, she turns, and turns on the hot, hot charm. "Oh, you want this?" she says in this sexy, dangerous voice.

Here we go. Hell, yes, you want that. "Sure, baby."

She takes another step towards you. "You want to _fuck_ me, do you?" she asks. Man, that thick accent is hot as hell. You'd fuck just that voice if you could. She's going to make you hard just by talking if she keeps going; not to mention that tight getup she's wearing. She wants to show you everything that's underneath her clothes before she's even taken them off for you.

"Yeah, I want to fuck you, baby," you tell her, and pat your lap. You've fucked women in bars before. You can probably get away with it in here. Beer and sex: what a fucking great afternoon.

In one surprisingly agile movement, she throws a leg across you in the stall, and she's straddling you, her hands on the backrest behind you, her knees on either side of your hips. Oh, yeah.

You put your hands on that fucking amazing ass, feeling that fill up your underwear. Yeah, today was turning out better than expected. You're going to get some fucking hot tail before the sun's even down.

"I bet you want to spread my long legs and grab my body," she says, those bee-stung lips beside your ear. Man, she's making you hard. "And then you want to put _that_ it inside me, don't you?" She glances down at your pants.

Man, this woman is smoking hot. You definitely don't mind about how skinny she is now, you can totally forgive it because of everything else she has to offer you. "You bet I do, baby," you tell her, kneading that ass and trying to pull it down against your full, paint-stained shorts. "And I bet you want me to give it to you right here, don't you? I bet you want me to give it to you."

Her voice is suddenly cold. "Of course I don't, you _filth_ ," she says, and then you're being slammed against the backrest of the stall.

At first you think it's all part of the fun—after all, she had those tits in your face a moment ago, and she's straddling you, so maybe she likes it rough?—but then you get a look at her face and for the second you're able to see it, you see she is _angry_.

Then, something collides with one of your skull. You curl forward, shouting, confused, and clutching at your head while your ears ring and your eyes twinkle with stars and then something—a heel?—rolls you onto your back and your facing the ceiling.

"One day you'll learn it is not all about what _you_ want," is what you hear her say, and then you feel something cold press against the zipper on your shorts. It feels like the barrel of a gun. "And today is that day."


	39. Clear Skies Ahead - Mercy x Pharah - SFW

Fareeha is hiding something from Angela, and Angela can't figure out what it is. Written in 91 minutes.

* * *

Fareeha had never shown much interest in Scandinavia, so her sudden insistence that they go to Norway _this weekend_ and that they take their combat uniforms with them was more than passing odd. Angela agreed—it was lovely visiting new places with her handsome partner, after all—but she spent much of the plane trip up to the Tromsø watching Fareeha out of the corner of her eye and wondering what she was up to.

Fareeha seemed nervous about something; she was spending a long time checking websites and peering out the airplane window. She seemed a little preoccupied.

"Would you like to tell me what's going on?" Angela asked at one point while Fareeha was staring rapt at the news report on the back of the seat in front of her.

"You'll see," Fareeha told her cryptically, briefly giving her a half-smile before looking back at the screen.

Angela sighed at her, and went back to the medical study she'd been trying to read while Fareeha anxiously fidgeted in her seat.

When they arrived in Tromsø (and after they'd spent an hour in customs trying to get clearance for their combat suits), the first thing Fareeha did was hire a big van from the airport car rental facility. "Get comfortable," she told Angela as they piled the suits in and buckled up, "it's going to be a _long_ drive."

It _was_ a long drive. It was dim and snowing; flurries of snowflakes blew against the windscreen and got caught in the wipers. As they got further out of town and the roads hadn't been cleared, Fareeha slowed right down to be careful.

"I'm happy to drive, you know," Angela offered, having spent many winters navigating snowy and mountainous roads. "Just look out for the road markers, the red-reflector things. They'll let you know where the edge of the road is."

"Thanks," Fareeha told her, but didn't pull over so they could switch drivers.

Angela watched her suspiciously for a little while, but ended up being distracted by the beautiful picturesque countryside, covered in snow like a Christmas card. These mountains could have been lifted right out of Switzerland—it made her a little homesick, actually. She really needed to take Fareeha to the Swiss Alps one day.

After nightfall, they finally turned off the main highway and drove for a little while through some fields before they arrived at a little wooden cabin in the middle of nowhere. There was snow on the roof and icicles draping from the awnings, and it was surrounded by a patch snow-covered conifers trees.

"We're here," Fareeha told her with a secret smile.

Angela watched Fareeha for a moment, suspicious. This was a beautiful little cabin—and she was sure they would enjoy relaxing together here—but it wasn't something to be anxious about. It wasn't something to be glued to the news reports about. It wasn't the whole story. "You know, I'd love you to tell me what you're up to," she told Fareeha, who just laughed and began unloading the van.

After they'd taken out their luggage and explored inside, Angela set about stoking a roaring fire in the big open fire place, unpacking the sealed dinners they'd brought with them, and cracking open a bottle of red to wash it all down.

They put some music on in the background and lazed around on the faux-bearskin rug in front of the fire place, chatting, holding each other, and enjoying each other's company. It was so cosy in the ambient warmth of the fire. But it wasn't the whole story, not at all. Fareeha was nervous.

Even when they were making love, she seemed a bit distracted—glancing out the window periodically and looking tense.

Angela propped herself up on her elbows, tracing a finger over Fareeha's bare skin and admiring how it glowed in the firelight. "Is it that you're waiting for something?"

Fareeha chuckled, looking down her body at Angela. "You could say that."

Angela found the whole thing a little infuriating. "Or you could just tell me what's going on and put me out of my misery. You know I'm no good at being patient."

"Of course you aren't." Fareeha was grinning. "You're the doctor."

Angela _groaned_ , rolling her eyes and rolling over in the fluffy rug. They fell asleep like that in front of the crackling fire.

The following day, Fareeha was at it again—nose buried in screens and watching the news. Angela made them both breakfast, and then tried to surreptitiously read over Fareeha's shoulder while she was drinking her coffee. There didn't seem to be any stories relevant to them on there, though. She just couldn't work it out.

Late in the afternoon, Fareeha _finally_ cracked a smile at something she'd seen on one of her news reports. "Tonight's the night!" she declared, and then spent another hour lovingly polishing up and preparing her Raptora.

She made them both climb into their suits as the sun went down, and then they sat around while Fareeha stared out the window. Finally, as the night grew darker, she coaxed Angela up. "Let's go outside," she said, bubbling with nervous energy.

Outside, it was hard to see at first; it was the dark of the moon and the sky was overcast. The white, ankle-deep snow on the ground at least ensured they wouldn't fall over anything as Fareeha led them out and slightly uphill to the centre of one of the fields; there was a little bench there, overlooking a frozen lake. Slowly,

"Let's wait here," Fareeha told her, and they sat.

Angela was _dying_ to know what was going on. "Is someone picking us up for something?" she asked, looking at the sky as well. Fareeha shook her head. "Then what are we waiting for?" Fareeha just smiled, gazing towards the sky.

It must have been nearly midnight when the wind abruptly changed.

They'd been holding hands—or gloves, really—and Fareeha's hand immediately tightened on hers. She stood. Angela stood, too, aware of everything around her, with no idea what was about to happen.

It was perfectly still around them—the snow muted any traffic noise from nearby roads. The only sound she could hear other than their own breathing were dogs who'd begun to howl in the distance. It was eerie.

Fareeha was smiling ear to ear and looking upward, waiting. For what, Angela didn't know.

When the clouds suddenly parted, she understood.

Above them, streaked across a starlit sky were the beautiful Northern Lights. Intense reds, greens, blues, all overlaying each other, and making slow waves above them. The light was so strong that it carpeted the snow around their feet in colour and reflected off the frozen lake in front of them like a perfect mirror. Here where they were: miles away from the closest town, in the dark and the pristine snow, the landscape was suddenly engulfed by the beautiful lights overhead.

While Angela was admiring it, Fareeha stepped in front of her, a gentle smile on her face as she tenderly touched Angela's cheek.

Then, she knelt down.

The breath caught in Angela's throat. She couldn't speak at all, not at all, as Fareeha retrieved a tiny box from one of her pockets and held it up towards her. "I think you know what comes next," she said quietly with a smile.

Angela did, but she was too breathless to answer.

Fareeha opened the tiny box to reveal a little gold ring with a beautiful single diamond.

The ring was beautiful, and the sky was beautiful, but at that moment, nothing compared to the woman in front of Angela and the _beautiful_ smile on her face. "Marry me," she said simply, and then looked up towards the amazing light show above them. "Let's make the skies this beautiful for each other forever."

Angela couldn't help it; she felt tears welling in her eyes. This place, the ring, the sky: everything was perfect. She would remember this moment _forever_.

She let Fareeha help her take off her glove—it was _cold_ , but she didn't care!—and slip the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly, and Angela could hardly look away from it. "I love you so much," she found herself saying as Fareeha kissed her fingers and the ring, and then replaced the glove, pulled Angela into her arms and kissed her soundly, too.

Afterwards, she stepped away from Angela and took her hand, glancing upwards in anticipation with a big, eager smile on her face. "You ready?"

The Raptora suit blinked on, beginning to whirr as the motors powered up. There was a burst of heat from the jets starting.

Feeling a rush of adrenaline, Angela nodded. She _loved_ this part. "Always, Fareeha."

For a moment they smiled at each other, and then hand in hand, Fareeha propelled them both upwards into the sky. Under a million stars, surrounded by dazzling colour, they revelled in something even more beautiful that was ahead of them: the bright, beautiful future they'd create together.


	40. Trolling - Sombra, Widowmaker

Speed prompt, written in 22 minutes.

* * *

Okay, so there were many other things she should have been doing. She knew that. Things like planting keyloggers in LumeriCo's latest installation, watching their security cam footage for information about what was going on there, yadda yadda.

All that could wait, though.

She'd figured out something critically important: how to hack Reaper's gun cache in Talon's live training range, and he was about to face one of their armed training bots. Chewing on a thumbnail, she leant intently towards the screen, watching the security footage she'd patched. Oh, this was definitely going to be good.

"What is all this infernal _giggling_ ," a dry voice with a strong French accent asked from behind her. "It can't possibly be work."

"Well, you know what they say," Sombra said easily, eyes still on the screen. "All work and no play…"

Curiosity must have gotten the better of Widowmaker, because pretty soon there was a faint reflection of a blue face in Sombra screen. "Is that Reaper?"

"Mmm-hmm," Sombra said, a smile pulling at her lips as Reaper engaged the bot.

They both watched the screen for a moment as Reaper emptied his magazines into the bot, threw aside his guns and wound up to death blossom, reaching dramatically into his cloak to grab his— _nothing_? There was nothing there…?

Despite having no face, his expression… it only took him a fraction of a second to realise what was going on and he looked directly at the security camera. They didn't need audio to hear what he was saying—his shout penetrated the walls of the stronghold. " _SOMBRA_ —!"

Sombra laughed—people should know better than to expect their tech would always work when she was around!—when she realised the reflection in her screen was smirking as well. She looked back over her shoulder. "Enjoy the show?"

Widowmaker looked mildly impressed. "Oh, I _like_ you." She had a rare grin.

Sombra laughed once. "Pfft, of course you do," she said, casually unlocking Reaper's gun cache so he didn't actually get hurt. "Everybody loves Sombra."


	41. I've Got Your Number- Sombra, Widowmaker

Because we all saw the suspicious expression Widowmaker had when she realised the mission had failed. Speed prompt, written in 35 minutes.

* * *

The ship was quiet on the way back to Talon HQ.

Sombra had to make a genuine attempt to not look extremely pleased with herself—especially as Spidersona and Mr Muerto couldn't have looked _less_ pleased with each other than if they'd been actively fighting to the death right there.

As they were alighting from the ship, Reaper eventually cracked first. "What are _you_ looking at?" he asked Widowmaker. "I'm not the one who missed my shot. _Again_."

Her eyes narrowed. "If you understood anything at all about aiming, you'd know it's not than just pointing a gun at someone and shooting. The only reason _you_ ever hit anyone is because you practically have a gun right up against their—"

"I killed nine people and a giant mech. How many did you even—"

"I only ever need to kill one. And thanks to you and Sombra, I did not have the opportunity to do that."

Sombra wasn't getting involved. " _Dios mio_ , you two are a barrel of fun today," she told them both. "We lost out on this one. We'll have another chance. There'll be plenty of other chances."

Reaper continued not being a barrel of fun. "We'll let _you_ explain that to Talon, then."

Sombra shrugged. Whatever. "Suit yourself," she said, wandering out of the ship. "Anyways, I have work to do."

 _Like figuring out how my new friend can best help me_ , she thought, smiling to herself a she headed back to her own quarters at HQ. As much as she hated it, though, she probably had _more important_ things to do first: the three Talon operatives would have to go over the failed mission tomorrow in detail—in fact, she'd probably be grilled—so she needed to figure out exactly how to explain why she didn't manage to kill Ms Volskaya.

She didn't get the opportunity to work that out straight away, though, because she was followed by someone who thought that 'quiet' meant 'invisible'. Nothing was invisible these days. At least, nothing except Sombra. "If you'd like some basic tips on how stealth works, I'd be happy to help," she said over her shoulder with a smirk as she sat down at her computer.

There was a pronounce sigh, and Widowmaker stepped out of the shadows. Sombra wasn't looking at her, but she could guess how angry she was from the tone of her voice. "We need to talk." She meant business.

It was a pity Sombra wasn't in the mood for business. "Nah, I'm a little busy right now," she said casually. "Maybe try me tomorrow at like two? Two-thirty?"

Ignoring her, Widowmaker closed the distance between them and roughly spun her seat around. "Sombra, if you had complete control over the security systems, why did Volskaya's alarms go off?"

 _Shit_. Um... "Well, sometimes these things have separate systems and backups of themselves. Sometimes they're not even wired to the central systems. It's not as simple as pressing a button every time, you know."

Widowmaker was _not_ convinced. "I don't believe that for a moment."

"Believe what you want, lady. I'm telling you how it is."

Widowmaker's lips pressed into a thin line for a moment. "I just find it incredibly interesting that the alarm system went off, you were hot on Volskaya's trail and then you disappeared for too long to just have—"

Okay. This was getting a _little_ too close to home. "Yeah, well, I find it ' _interesting_ ' how long Talon thinks you're spending in France when your e-Tickets say 'London'. What would you be doing in London, _Widowmaker_? Is 'what' even the right question?"

Widowmaker's face hardened, and she abruptly let go of Sombra's chair, standing back. For a moment, Sombra thought Widowmaker might attack her; she wasn't sure how that would go actually, because that blue lady had some pretty mean moves if you got on her bad side.

In the end, though, Widowmaker just shook her head. She was leaving this one. "One day Talon is going to find out the truth about you, Sombra."

Sombra shrugged. "Yeah, well, that day isn't today," she said, standing and approaching Widowmaker so she had to back away. "Buh-bye." The automatic door shut in Widowmaker's face.


	42. In Ruins - Mercy x Pharah

On this day every year, Angela remembers what was, and what could have been. Speed prompt, written in 61 minutes.

* * *

Every year for six years, Angela returned there. As the days shortened, the leaves turned and the wind began to bite, she knew it was time: November 10, a date she would _never_ forget.

The date she watched everything she'd hoped for, everything she'd dreamt of blow up in a mushroom-cloud of smoke and flame, lit by the people she loved and trusted.

The Swiss Overwatch HQ was abandoned and overgrown; a new Chernobyl. After the UN and the International Security Police had picked though the site clean for clues and bodies, no one went there. No one trusted her experiments, and no one thought it was safe. So it sat untouched, untrespassed, for six years.

This year, on November 10, Fareeha came with her.

They'd been chatting as they left Bern; singing to the radio, planning their New Years'. As they drove further into the mountains, though, their mood sobered. When they turned off the highway towards the site entrance, they were silent.

The road to Swiss HQ was overgrown with branches; Fareeha had to drive carefully to avoid scratching the car. Orange and red autumn leaves fell all over the windscreen and made it difficult to see the road, and when the road ended at the broken security gate that hung off its sprung hinges, Fareeha stopped.

Ahead of them, what had once been the magnificent Swiss HQ, a beacon of medical research and life-improving technology, was now in ruins. Covered in moss, in vines. Birds nested in its blackened awnings.

"I still remember how it used to look before," Angela confessed.

She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering. Remembering the first time she'd set foot here: her _excitement_. Her joy. All the research she was going to do here, all the lives she was going to save! She'd looked up at that shining building and felt _part_ of something. She'd felt part of something that was going to make the world a better place.

When she opened her eyes again, it was to ruins.

"I saw pictures," Fareeha said quietly. "It was beautiful."

All Angela could remember was the hope she'd felt when she'd first set foot inside those doors. "Yes," she said. "It _was_ beautiful."

They switched off the car and alighted; setting foot in the deep bramble and long grass. It was a tough slog up into the building, and it probably wasn't safe to walk inside: it was only partly collapsed, but neither of them hesitated to walk in through those doors.

Birds took flight in panic as they entered; shards of cool autumn sunlight streamed in from the missing roof. In the entrance hall there familiar fixtures: a reception desk. An office chair, on its side. Someone's glasses; a vase. Evidence this had once been a workplace. The sign on the wall behind reception had half fallen off, it used to read: _Overwatch Medical Research: Protecting Communities, Saving Lives_.

Angela recalled the first time she'd felt her lips form those words, and she reached up to touch the faded letters with her fingertips. "I was 17 years old when I first read this."

Fareeha had a wry smile. "Twenty years ago."

Angela gave her a look. "Oof, thanks for reminding me."

Fareeha chuckled, and followed her on a slow pilgrimage through the entrance hall into a back corridor. Here, there was still a roof. Angela could see her eyeing it nervously as they walked inside.

Angela wasn't afraid. She'd been here six times before since—and before that, she'd been here a _thousand_ times before. Even through the cracked linoleum, the debris and the dirt, she knew each step. Her legs measured a distance she could walk in her sleep, into Lab 1.19. Her name was still on the door, _Dr A Ziegler_.

She stopped by it. "This was already on the door when I came here for the first time," she said, smiling at the memory. "The Dean of Research led me here, and when I saw this, he said, 'We've been waiting for you, Angela', and inside," God, here came the tears, "inside, they'd already set up my lab for me. With everything I'd had at the Queen's hospital, but _better_. I had assistants, they all smiled and welcomed me. I had a receptionist. I was 17 years old, and all these people where smiling at me and telling me how excited they were to work with me."

She walked into her lab, closing her eyes and remembering it.

"It must have been wonderful."

Angela nodded. "For the first time—the first time in my life—I felt I was exactly where I was supposed to be. All the puzzle pieces had fit into place. I was here: and all these people were going to help me _change the world_. With my research, no child would ever know what it felt like to lose a parent. There would always be someone to tuck them in, wish them goodnight, and tell them they were loved."

The picture before her now was a stark contrast: a destroyed lab, shattered glass, smashed and burnt fixtures. At her feet, there was a jar; she bent down to pick it up. The label was burnt, but it read, ' _nano-tech: s10891'._ Angela knew that number well; that was the 'Angel' number. The high-affinity lactate synthesis that temporarily stopped cells from cascading to apoptosis. Her greatest discovery.

The whole centre had gathered to congratulate her when she'd revealed it. She would have been nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize if they'd ever managed to get it into proper testing, she knew. The Dean of Research even said that in his speech at the huge party the centre had thrown for her afterwards.

Everyone had been patting her on the back, and when they'd led her up on stage and _all cheered_ for her, all five hundred of them with raised glasses, she'd looked down at all those faces—parents, most of them—and when realised their children may never need to suddenly lose them, she'd _cried_. She'd cried for all the children that would never have to suffer the childhood she did. She'd cried to think that unexpected death, that unexpected _grief_ , could be _history_. That people could feel safe knowing the people they loved would always be there.

It felt like so long again. Before the explosion.

Before all her technology was unceremoniously ravaged and destroyed, and then her lab was left to rot while her name was dragged through the media. Dr Death, they'd called her. The insidious reference had broken her heart.

Now, all that was left of that era was this jar with a little code on it, a broken building owned by a decommissioned organisation, and her memories. Trapped in her head, with the synthesis process for the 'Angel' tech.

Fareeha was standing at a unobtrusive distance, looking over her shoulder. "Do you still remember your research from here?"

Angela nodded. "Every formula."

Fareeha nodded. Then, tentatively, she stepped forward and put a warm and comforting hand on the small of Angela's back. "Will you go back to it, you think?"

She knew the answer, as painful as it was. "I have to," she said, looking down at the little jar, out at her ravaged lab, and then across at the woman who loved her. "I just have to start all over again."


	43. Rumour Has It - Mercy x Pharah

Overwatch has fallen, and the media is full of terrible lies about the work of Dr Angela Ziegler. Speed prompt, written in 65 minutes.

* * *

Blanket around her middle, early morning sun shining in from their bedroom window, Angela sat up in bed. Her phone had been ringing off the hook with notifications all night; she couldn't bring herself to look at them. Instead, she took a deep breath, reaching out with shaking hands to touch 'play' on the holovid she'd opened in from of her.

A reporter's solemn face popped up. Before she'd even opened her mouth, Angela's heart was pounding. "Disgraced organisation Overwatch—decommissioned by the United Nations itself after the truth was leaked by brave unknown sources—has been found to have conducted extensive medicals experiments on _innocent people_."

Beside her, Fareeha turned over in bed. "Don't do this, Angela," she said, touching Angela's cool arm with her hand that was warm from the blankets. "Don't do this to yourself."

But Angela couldn't look away. She couldn't. She just listened to the so-called 'news'. "Reports were made available to this news stations showing _extensive_ medical experimentation on subjects identified simply as numbers—a practice likened to the events in Nazi Germany last century—"

Angela's lips were pressed in a tight, thin line. This reporter had _no idea_ what she was talking about; Angela's family had lost nearly an entire generation last century. Her ears were ringing.

Fareeha knew this. "—Angela, please. Turn it off, it doesn't help you to—"

"I need to know, Fareeha."

It didn't stop. "…Ironically enough, the experiments were actually carried out by a doctor whose family was originally German before they moved to Switzerland last century, Doctor Angela Zeigler, a woman who newspapers have now dubbed 'Dr Death' because of the reports identifying how many of the people she experimented died as a result of her cruel torture, and—"

Angela couldn't hold her breath any longer. "They died because of the _war_ , you idiots!" She hissed at the screen. The reporter just kept droning on in the background as Angela shouted at her. "They died because everyone is still fighting each other, and I couldn't save them because you _took away my research based on nothing but hearsay and rumours_!" It wasn't fair; she could fear tears welling in her eyes.

Fareeha's hand reached up and switched off the video. "Angela, please don't—"

" _How dare they_?"

"It's just tabloid media, people will forget that—"

"Just— _how dare they_?" Angela was _shaking_. She turned to Fareeha. "I dedicated my whole life to _eradicating_ death! To making sure parents returned home to their children, that grandparents would live to see four beautiful generations of their family, to making sure that no child—no child ever—would ever lie awake at night with no one to tuck them in, or tell them that they love them, or make sure that—"

"Angela…" Fareeha sat up in bed, putting an arm around her. "I know that. You know that. Anyone who matters in the medical community knows that, don't listen to—"

"And now 10 billion people in the world thing I'm a _monster_!"

"I don't think they really believe this. No one would believe that—"

"Fifty newspapers. Every news station…" Angela tabbed through the menu of the holovid, showing Fareeha the headlines. "All of them are about _Dr Death_."

"Angela…"

She knew Fareeha was only trying to help. But she felt sick, so sick. She could hardly breath. What had she done to deserve this? She couldn't bear it any longer. "I'm getting up," she said neutrally, and went to have a shower.

The warm water didn't feel as good as it usually did. Angela could see her reflection in the shower screen; bags under her eyes. Sallow skin—she hadn't slept properly in days. How could she, when people were saying such horrible things about her? When people _believed_ these things without even questioning them?

She dressed mechanically. She ate her breakfast; cold, chewy toast. Her coffee was bitter, and at the breakfast table—a place where she'd normally read her emails and watch the news—she just stared at the table in front of her. _'Dr Death eats breakfast, contemplates new evil scheme_ ', she imagined the newspapers saying about her staring at the table like this. She couldn't finish her toast.

Behind her, she could feel Fareeha lingering in doorways, watching her. Wanting to help. "Can I do anything to—"

"No." She paused. "Thank you. No." Fareeha eventually gave up hovering and went to do something else.

After her breakfast, Angela would normally get to work; reading the latest research, following up on correspondence. She didn't think she could do that today. Her phone was still going—message after message, notification after notification. Everyone wanted a piece of Dr Death, it seemed. _I'll have to get a new number_ , I thought; she'd had this one for twenty years.

After a few minutes of watching her phone light up nonstop, she pulled her phone in front of her on the table, staring down at it. The little notification panel was full. A little red ' _4677_ ' was above her email inbox.

 _Apparently, 4677 people want to tell me what they think of me_ , she realised, watching that number tick to 4678, 4679, 4680. She wondered what they were saying.

Fareeha would tell her not to do it, and that she should delete the messages and throw away her phone. Fareeha was always so strong on that point: what matters is what you do, because on Judgement Day—Angela knew she quoted her mother on this one—Allah would weigh her deeds against her actual deeds, not what people said about her.

It was good, practical advice. But Angela never had been very good at taking Fareeha's advice.

4681.

4682.

How had so many people gotten her private number, she wondered? As far as she was aware, no one outside the medical community or any of the odd patients she'd attended over the years had it. Someone had probably doxed her, she decided. That was likely; she knew there were some powerful people with terribly technological know-how out there.

4683.

Morbidly, she wondered if she could reach 5000 by the end of the morning. 5000 people sending hateful messages to Dr Death. Maybe she'd even make 10,000 by dinner?

4684.

She wondered what people would have to say about her; if they were truly comparing her to the Nazis, and if they did, if they knew she was Jewish herself.

4685.

She couldn't stop thinking about that, though. About the awful comparison. About the haunting photos she'd seem of the emptiness in her great-great-grandmother's eyes, how people said her great-great-grandmother couldn't answer the phone because every time the phone rang, she thought it was _them_. That _they'd_ found her. How her throat would close over and she'd stand paralysed and stare at it, trapped in a different time. How the damn tabloid media had _no idea_.

4686.

 _Well, damn them_ , Angela thought vehemently. _Damn them all_.

Fuelled by bitterness and a sense of horrible, painful injustice, she reached out and tapped the little red numbers, opening another window in her holovid.

"Let's see what you're all saying about Dr Death," she said flatly, feeling sick.

There were _so many emails_. Even other doctors were emailing her, random people, names she didn't recognise, some names she did. It was all about the news, she could see that from the subject lines. And it was all so, so sarcastic. So much hate.

Feeling sick to her stomach, she opened the first one, the one at the top of the list.

Mouth dry and heart pounding, she braced herself to read the words she knew she was going to. She prepared herself to read that barrage of lies, to _feel_ the hatred seeping from every word they said.

" _Dear Dr Ziegler_ ," it began. Her stomach was in knots as she kept reading. " _You probably don't remember me. You operated on me about ten years ago when I was bleeding out after being shot. I saw the reports about the terrible things you've done today. I sat and watched all of them from beginning to end, about how you'd killed people and experimented on people and pretended to be this innocent, sweet lady when you're a terrible person, and I want you to know that I don't believe a word that they're saying. I'm alive because of you. Last year, my wife had our first child and every time I look at her beautiful sleeping face I'm thankful to you for saving me._ "

Angela sat back.

She had to read that again. And again, looking for the barb. Looking for the hidden nastiness she'd expected, but she couldn't find one.

Stunned, she opened the next letter.

" _Dear Dr Ziegler_ ," it read. It had clearly been typed by a child. " _Thank you for saving mummy from the soldiers. She can walk really good now! I put a photo here for you to see._ " Attached was a photo of a woman Angela remembered operating on in the field last year. It was a Christmas photo; the woman had a crutch under one arm and a Christmas tree behind her. There was a little girl with a big gap-toothed grin wrapped around her waist. The woman was smiling, and holding a sign that said 'Thank you, Dr Ziegler'. It had been cross-posted to social media.

Angela swallowed.

When she tabbed down the list, her eyes jumped to a familiar name.

Genji. " _Dear Angela,_ " it began. It had been hand written on a screen. " _Pay no attention to the media, it is poison. Take some time away from the news and the papers to reflect on what you know to be true, what we all know to be true about you. I have said some awful things to you in the past, but now I am truly grateful to you for giving me another chance; another opportunity to save myself. I have taken it, and I am happy now. That is partly your doing, Angela. Thank you_."

She tabbed down the list, scrolling and scrolling. Each message read like this. All of them. One after another, filled with joy and hope she'd given people.

She tabbed down the list, opening message after message, waiting for the shoe to fall, for the 'trick' to be apparently.

But there wasn't a trick. The 'thank you' subject lines weren't sarcasm. People weren't mocking her, or insulting her, or hating her. It was all genuine.

Despite everything, in her darkest hour, 4685 people had sent her beautiful, heartfelt messages to thank her for saving them. So many children who still had parents because of her; so many families still whole, still in one piece because of her. So many lives saved and lives touched.

Every message. Every one of them.

She closed her email windows, put her head in her hands and _cried_.


	44. Rescue Mission - Tracer (POV), Mercy

Angst. Read on at own peril 3

* * *

We didn't get to just hang out much, us lot. The whole saving-the-world business was pretty busy again these days, so between redeployments and catching up on real, actual sleep (not the type of sleep you get on sky cruiser ship, because those things are _murder_ for trying to get comfortable—I mean, sleeping upright, are you _mental_?), we just didn't seem to have much time to do anything normal.

I wasn't the one who got the worst of it, though. I had training in the mornings and evenings (of course), but during the day I just sort of rattled around Overwatch HQ trying to remember what on earth I'd done during the four years I'd been living there. The others always seemed way busier: Winston was always shut in his office at his old-fashioned blackboard and occasionally electrocuting himself, Torbjorn had about a hundred children now, and Dr Ziegler? Well, I hadn't seen her in days. She never came out of her lab during the day, never. I didn't think she'd seen sunlight in weeks ("I'm taking Vitamin D supplements, don't worry!"), and when she went up to bed, you could hear her old sewing machine clunking along from all the way down the corridor deep into the night. She probably didn't sleep very much, either.

I lay in my own bed, listening to it and worrying about her. I mean, all work and no play couldn't be good for her, right? I knew that her research was really important to her, but she had to get out of there at some point. It just wasn't healthy, shutting herself in like that.

 _And… well…_ I turned over in bed, exhaling. On top of it being unhealthy, I also sort of missed her, you know? It used to be nice spending time with her. She was always so warm and lovely, and she'd been one of the people who I'd really missed when Overwatch had been disbanded.

I'd never been someone to just sit on problems, so I decided the following day that I'd fix everything in one clean strike: I'd go and see Dr Ziegler, which would force her to talk to another actual human _and_ give me a really nice opportunity to spend time with her again.

The trouble was, the only sure-fire way to distract Doctor Z from her work was to be sick.

So…

"Tell me, Lena, do you get these terrible headaches at any specific time of day?" Dr Ziegler inquired as I hoisted myself up onto her exam table and she fussed around in her drawer for one of those poke-in-the-ear thingamabobs. "Or when you're doing something specific, perhaps?" She put her fingers on my chin to steady it and popped the ear-thingy in my ear.

I knew basically _nothing_ about medicine, and this faking-an-illness act was pretty hard as a result. "Erm, it's rather random, actually," I lied, trying to imagine what sort of headache would make her need to do the most number of tests. "But it all happened after I bumped my head."

That got her attention. "How long ago was that?"

Um. "Two weeks, perhaps?" I paused. "…Maybe?"

She relaxed, which meant I'd blown it. "Oh. Well, it's probably unrelated, especially if your pain isn't escalating," she confirmed, and then peered into my ear. "Are they worse at night when you're lying down in bed?"

"Isn't everything worse at night when you're lying down in bed?"

That made her laugh—and, lord, it had been _so long_ since I'd heard her laugh. It was such a nice sound. I beamed about managing it as she finished up whatever she was doing in my ear and walked around me.

She shot me a stern (but, really, slightly amused) glance before she stuck the ear-thingy in my other ear. " _Lena_ ," she said. "Your health isn't a joke."

I resisted the urge to joke about it anyway (messing about too much made the headache story less realistic, I thought), and just sat there primly with my legs swinging while she fussed about in my ear.

It felt nice to have someone so close, and it was nice to hear her worrying about me. Actually—horrible lies asides—this whole thing was pretty nice, really, and I was so glad she was my doctor. After all, how many people got to have pretty doctors who were also lovely people and actual geniuses?

"Well, there's no inflammation in there," she told me, interrupting my internal monologue about how wonderful she was, and then checked something on her ear-thingy. "And you don't have a temperature." She gave me an appraising look, thinking. "Hmm. Has anything been worrying you as of late?"

Hah. "You mean apart from the fact we're probably on the brink of another omnic war?"

She could tell from my tone of voice that I wasn't being serious. " _Lena._ "

"You did ask," I pointed out and winked at her. She good-naturedly rolled her eyes, crossed her arms, and pointedly waited for my answer.

I was smiling, I couldn't help it. I'd just forgotten how much I really enjoyed being around her.

"Lena. Any extra stressors lately?" she prompted.

Oh, right. Well… I considered that; what answer seemed the most 'sick'? I couldn't decide, so I just said, "I mean, perhaps I am stressing about things? I can't say for sure that I'm not."

She looked back at me, thinking. "I suppose none of us get out of here very much these days…" she conceded, and then stepped right up to me again so my knees were touching her stomach. Even though her lab coat, her blouse and her slacks, I could feel how warm her skin was. She lifted her hands to the base of my head—it gave me goosebumps, actually, being touched there—and said, "Turn your head as far as you can to the left?"

I did, and she presumably felt around for tight muscles while I enjoyed having all the skin on my neck palpated by her gentle fingertips. Should I pretend it was stiff? I probably should. I did, just in case.

"Hmm. It's a little tight, perhaps it _is_ stress or muscle strain," she concluded. "Other way."

I followed her instructions and turned my head towards her desk, and I was just enjoying having her touching the other side, too, when I noticed a colourful flier on her desk. I squinted at it. ' _Summer Ball_ '? "What's a Summer Ball?"

Her fingertips froze on my neck; only for a moment though. "Oh, nothing," she said, perhaps a little too quickly. "Just something silly I enjoy going to so I can dress up, sometimes."

Oh, was that what she was up late sewing for…? "That doesn't sound silly, that sounds really interesting! When is it?"

"Tonight."

"Tonight?!" I forgot all about my alleged headaches. "That's wonderful! Are you definitely going to go to it? Because you should. I know saving everyone is definitely important and everything, but even you need some time to relax and have fun? You can do that at these things, right?"

She gave me a bit of an odd, and let her hands fall. She walked over to the desk, lifted the brochure, and handed it to me for a closer look.

It had stuffy, posh people all dressed up and dancing around stiffly like in old movies. Honestly, it looked like the sort of thing that would really bore me, I hated big fancy dos like that. It looked like the type of thing someone like Dr Ziegler would love, though. "Will people really dress up like that?" I found myself wondering aloud. "In the big puffy dresses?"

"Well, I was planning on wearing something like that…"

"That's what you've been making, right? At night?" She opened her mouth maybe to ask how I knew… but in the end, just nodded. It was really comforting knowing she'd been spending all that time making something for herself to enjoy rather than mending her uniforms or working on one of her Valkyrie suits, really comforting. I liked the idea of her up there in her room, planning something beautiful. It made me feel really warm and happy for her.

I looked down at the people dancing on the front again. I couldn't imagine anyone else from Overwatch dressing up like that, though. Maybe Reinhardt would get a kick out of it, but he was off somewhere else in Central Europe at the moment. "Are you going with any of the others?"

"No, I—" She paused. "Well, no."

That question made her uncomfortable, I could tell. Maybe she didn't have anyone to go with and was a bit embarrassed about it? I always felt like that when I went to the movies by myself.

She lifted her hands back up to my neck to continue her investigation into my headaches. "Anyway. Look right again?"

I did, but I was far too distracted by the thought of the Doc in a big posh dress all by herself to focus too much on how to convince her I had terrible headaches that needed her immediate attention.

I wondered what her dress was like—I'd hardly seen her in anything except scrubs or lab coats for _years_. She was always 'Dr Ziegler', everything about her was Dr Ziegler. The 'Angela' part of her was still a bit of a mystery. 'Angela' _did_ sound like the sort of name some in a beautiful big fluffy dress would have, though, didn't it? I listened to the way it sounded in my head, and totally forgot I was being examined for illness.

In the end, I didn't manage to convince her anything was terrible wrong with me at all.

"It's probably just stress," she told me eventually, writing that in my file. "You should probably take some of that leave you never take—get out of the ship, relax a little more."

 _Probably_ , I thought, not intending to do any of that when there were such lovely doctors _on_ my ship.

That was when I remembered I was holding the flier.

I looked down at it, feeling the smooth paper between my fingertips. Honestly, the whole thing looked completely over the top. Not in a bad way, though, just different. And different things could be fun, couldn't they? I couldn't let Doctor Z go by herself, either. That was awful, no one should be by themselves at something like this. "Well, maybe I should tag along to this thing and see what all the fuss is about, then."

She immediately froze for a moment. It didn't last long. "I-I thought you hated that sort of thing?"

I did. I'd never fancied this sort of thing and famously didn't like dressing up, but I was already completely consumed by the idea of this beautiful dress she'd apparently been making and there was no bloody way in the world I was going to let her go by herself. Plus, I had a _great_ alibi in my fictional illness. "Think about it, Doctor Z, I bet a bit of dancing would sort my sodding stress headaches out."

She considered that. "O-Oh, well, that's a good point, I suppose..."

"And I scrub up nice, I promise. I won't embarrass you."

"No, no, that's not what I'm worried about, I just—" She laughed a little nervously from under those big long eyelashes of hers. It was almost coy.

I liked that. A little too much. "And I mean," _was I really going to say it?_ "it would be really nice to see you in a lovely dress that you made yourself…"

Her cheeks went this gentle shade of pink, and she laughed nervously again, and you know when you suddenly find someone so absolutely and irresistibly gorgeous that you just want to throw your arms around them and kiss them all over and never stop but you can't because they're your doctor and they're currently in the middle of examining you? _Yeah_. Wow.

"You're too kind, Lena," she said, unable to look at me. "But you can just come by my quarters on the ship when I'm dressed if you like—that way you can see my dress _and_ avoid the crowds of arrogant, rich people who you hate."

As nice as being invited into her room would be—golly, could you imagine? I'd learn so much about her, just by being inside her room and being around all her things—and as much as I genuinely did bloody loathe the whole Posh Prick demographic, I'd sort of made my mind up. I wasn't going to let her go by herself and be all alone. "I think I'd actually rather come and see what these fancy things are like."

She swallowed. "Well, alright…"

I frowned, not understanding why she was…. Wait. Wait a minute. Maybe I sounded really rude, just inserting myself into her plans like that? Was _that_ why she was being so evasive…? "Oh! I mean, if it's alright, that is? I don't want to come barging in on your party and interrupt your—"

"—No! No, it's fine, really," she said quickly. "It's just—well. I might leave a little early. I'm not sure, it depends on—well, it depends. And I know how late you like to stay out."

Oh, was that it? "No, that's perfectly alright, I can always stay on after you leave, anyway." I took a breath. "Or, like… I could escort you home so you don't have to come back by yourself in the dark."

She blushed again, and it made my heart skip a beat. I hadn't meant it exactly like it sounded, and honestly, I just wanted her to get home safely, but… was she reading _that_ into it, anyway? I didn't really want to hope (honestly, having a one-sided crush on a pretty doctor had never really bothered me), but… Well, I'd never seen her blush like that, and be coy like this, all over her dress and the ball-thing. I didn't know what to make of it, but it was a little exciting.

I tried to smother my butterflies. "What should I wear, though?" I wondered. "I don't really do dresses, and I don't have a tux. Do you think just wearing my old formal Overwatch uniform would be alright, the one with the medals and all that? If it still fits me, that is."

Her eyes were veiled. "I'm sure that would be fine…"

She seemed a little…

Well. It was confusing. The blushing, the coyness, but also the hesitation. I couldn't ignore it. "Doc, if you—I mean, if you don't want me to go, just say. I'll leave you alone, I promise, and I won't be weird about it. I won't ask to—"

She looked a little alarmed by that. "Oh, no! No," she said. "Not at all, Lena, I love your company, I do. I just—" She paused for a moment, looked up at me, right into my eyes. "Are you sure you wouldn't be bothered, being around all these people you don't like? I'm rather worried it would make your headaches _worse_."

Oh, was that all? I scoffed. "Don't worry about that, Doctor Z. I'm quite capable of just ignoring a few posh snobs, I went to a private school full of them, after all, and I'm sure there will be some nice people there, too."

Something about what I'd just said really comforted her. "That's a good point," she said, looking reassured. "Well, perhaps you will enjoy it, after all." There was still a note of something hanging in her voice—I wanted to ask what it was, but I also felt like I didn't really know her well enough to pry. Maybe she'd tell me later of her own accord. We left it, and after a moment, she'd dismissed it anyway and replaced it with a big, bright smile. It was a big relief, and it made me smile back at her.

"Well!" she said. "Well. I suppose it's sorted, then. Shall we leave at eight from the hanger?"

My chest inflated like a balloon. Were we really doing this?! "Got it, Doc!" I told her, unable to stop myself saluting her before I left. "I'll meet you at eight!" I could hear her chuckled behind me as I zipped out of her suites.

 _I was going to a ball with Doctor Z_! Like, really! I wasn't just lying in bed listening to her sewing machine and imagining it!

I buzzed all the way back to my quarters, buzzed _around_ my quarters, danced about a bit with a big, plush gorilla Winston had given me one birthday as a big joke, and then put my face level with its eyes. "I'm going to a ball with the Doc!" I told it, and then cheered, jumped up on my bed. She was going to have _such_ a good time, I was going to make sure of it! She deserved a nice, relaxing night after all the work she did! She was too nice to just be cooped up by herself forever, and I was going to make sure it was the _best night of her life_!

I stopped jumping when I realised how… well, how dirty that sounded. I was also _not_ going to take advantage of how lonely she most likely was, either. That would be terrible of me.

Feeling properly horrified at myself, I hopped down off my bed and went to look for all the bits and pieces of my formal uniform.

Fortunately, it still fit. It was a little tight around my thighs and biceps, though—proof that no matter what Morrison used to say about my scrawniness, I _was_ filling out a bit—and my latest model Chrono Accelerator was smaller than the first one and didn't cover as much of my uniform as it used to. It looked much better, I thought. The whole ensemble looked better. It felt really good to be back in it again too, no matter what people had said about Overwatch.

I stood to attention and saluted myself in the mirror, beaming at my reflection. It had been a long time since I'd worn it, and I'd forgotten how much I liked myself in it. I _did_ look rather fit, didn't I? Sure, I wasn't benching 350 or whatever, but I'd date me—I mean, probably. If I didn't find me really annoying, that is. Oh, lord, what if all that hesitation before was because she found me secretly annoying?!

 _Okay, Lena, you can't be annoying_ _tonight,_ I told my reflection, and then practiced not being annoying in the mirror until the sun had set and it wasn't too embarrassingly early for me to go wait for her in the hanger.

I arrived too early anyway (after all these years, I was still hopeless at whole faster-than-everyone thing), so I hid a couple of doorways back inside so that I didn't look like a hopeless lost teenager on her first date.

I was so busy rehearsing a completely suave greeting and some smooth compliments in my head that I almost didn't hear the hanger door open and shut, and I almost missed her entrance.

Honestly, I don't know how I could have missed her, even for a minute.

Her dress was like some sort of Disney ballgown—that's the only way I could describe it. Its soft folds stood out against the sleek metal and high contrast lights where all the cars were garaged. I didn't know any of the words for fabric (always been hopeless with that stuff) but it was whites and golds, ruffles and trains, stretching out behind her in shimmering, makeshift feathers as if she had two wings flowing behind her. Her blonde hair was down over her shoulders, too. I hadn't seen it down for ages—it had really grown. She looked magical, and, _lord_ , so beautiful. So very beautiful. Like she wouldn't be out of place at all being a Disney princess, even if she wasn't 16 anymore.

Her eyes fell on me while I still had my jaw open.

I panicked. "Erm, hiya!" I gave her some sort of stupid wave, and then hated myself forever.

She laughed, basically floating across the floor on her magical dress over to me. "There you are!" She did a slow, deliberate spin. "What do you think?"

I didn't waste a single moment completely embarrassing myself by saying earnestly, "I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." _Oh, lord, did I really just—?_ "I mean! Your dress, it—and I—erm—"

She laughed, her cheeks going a little pink again. Against the white of her dress and the blonde of her hair, it just made her look even more beautiful. "Remind me to _always_ ask your opinion!" she chuckled, and then looked _me_ up and down.

I was immediately self-conscious. "Is it okay? I mean, wearing an Overwatch uniform?"

She stepped forward, lifted her gloved hands and brushed my shoulders down a couple of times, and the wistfully touched the 'O' insignia. "You look lovely."

 _Lovely_?!

The only reason I didn't just sort of drift up into the sky after she'd said that was because she took my arm and anchored me to the ground. "Well, shall we?"

She was going to need to resurrect me multiple times throughout the night if she planned on touching me this much, even _with_ satin gloves on. I managed a sort of stifled 'mmm-hmm!' before we hopped into the car (or rather, _I_ hopped into the car, and she very slowly and very carefully climbed in with all her enormous, delicate dress), and headed in to the city.

The town hall where the ball was being hosted was all set-dressed like in one of those old movies—all the flashing billboards had been pulled down from outside, and all the lighting along the road had been replaced old fashioned iron street lamps. Inside the big double doors in the main hall, all the LEDS had been replaced with real chandeliers, the moving walkways had been replaced by parquetry, and everyone— _everyone_ , even the bloody string quartet—was dressed like they'd walked right out of an old movie.

It was incredible; enough to distract me from how pretty Dr Ziegler looked. "If I wasn't certain my Chrono Accelerator were working, I'd think I'd just accidentally slipped back to the 1900s," I found myself confessing to her, gaping at all the ladies in big fluffy dresses and the men in their sharp tuxedos. I didn't even mind that they were probably all rich and horrible, the whole set-up was truly top-notch.

The Doc was watching me (cue _my_ turn to blush), and seemed genuinely charmed by my reaction to it. "Wonderful, isn't it?"

Now there was an understatement. "I think I understand why you come to these things now."

She blushed a little herself. "Mmm," she said cryptically, and then gave me the grand tour of the hall, including all the important features like the buffet, the champagne table and—most importantly—the dance floor.

None of the couples on it were doing any sort of dance _I_ was familiar with; not that I was familiar with any sort of dance except the drunken kind you do when you're sort of shuffling about to the music and trying not to fall over. Definitely not the sort of dance I wanted to do in a place like this.

I spent a little while carefully watching everyone spinning around and memorising the patterns before I thought I might be able to copy them without being _too_ dreadful at it. Looking hopefully at Doctor Z (who was watching the crowd a little nervously, I thought), I asked, "Do you… think we could try it?"

She snapped out of whatever trance she'd been in. "If you like?"

I did like, so she showed me how stand, how to hold her waist (!), and then let me try and lead her out onto the floor.

And, well. I wasn't a slow learner, not at all. In fact, I'd always been pretty coordinated, so learning the steps wasn't the problem. The actual problem was that the Doc was probably a good several inches taller than me _before_ she put heels on, and since she was dressed up to the nines and I was wearing my military boots, turning her meant she had to bend in a really awkward angle which made the whole side of her dress droop onto the floor at my feet. Avoiding treading on it took so much concentration that I'm sure I messed up the steps a few times.

On the lead up to each turn she'd give me this horribly apprehensive look, and we both chuckled and breathed a big sigh of relief when they were over. On the last turn, however, we got stuck in this extremely awkward position with our arms in a weird sort of mesh around each other's shoulders and her train caught around my ankles and just ended up _laughing_ while the other couples (who all looked serious and beautiful) swept across the floor in perfect circles around us. Some of them were giving us right dirty looks.

She noticed. "Oh, dear," she said. "I don't think we're making much of an impression."

I went pink. "I'm sorry," I told her as I stepped out of the coil of dress train at my feet. "Perhaps we could switch parts?" I did a little spin under her arm to demonstrate how well I fit there.

She gave me a beautiful little laugh. "I've never danced the man's part," she admitted.

Another woman's voice—heavily accented—interrupted us. "And you shouldn't have to dance the lead simply because you have an _incompetent_ dance partner."

The shock of something so nasty when I'd been having so much fun felt like a full-on slap in the face, and I reeled from it, mute and stunned. Even more shocking was the fact that I recognised that voice.

So did Doctor Z. Her breath caught in her throat.

One black-gloved hand snaked onto her shoulder… attached to the cool blue skin of a tattooed arm. "Mind if I cut in?" Her face appeared beside Doctor's Z's.

 _Widowmaker_?!

I-I couldn't— It was such a horrible shock, seeing her face here. It felt like another slap, and my heart was _pounding_. Instinctively, I reached for my pistols so I could protect Dr Ziegler from her—but I wasn't wearing my holsters— _why_ had I chosen not to wear them, why!?— it was too much, all of it, from that sneer, to the sting in her voice, even to details like that wasn't in her uniform—although her ballgown was obviously a variation on it, with black lace, pink satin, even a tiara-like-think that somewhat resembled her visor.

I didn't know why she was here, I didn't know what she was doing, and she wasn't attacking me—or she _seemed_ not to be attacking me?!—but I was filled with absolute hatred for her. She _always_ showed up when I was having fun. She _always_ had to crash all of my parties.

Why did she always _ruin everything_?

"What are _you_ doing here?" I found myself spitting at her.

She didn't look as upset as I was. In fact, she hardly bothered to look at me. She was so calm. "Obviously, I'm here to kill you," she said tiredly.

I blinked at her. Was she just being facetious—or did that explain why she always showed up? "Wait, really?"

I'd never seen a ruder eyeroll in my whole life. "No, of _course_ not," she said, deigning me with an oh-so brief glance. "You're not important enough for anyone to care if you're alive or dead. I'm here for the same reason you are." She paused, gave my uniform the rudest, most bloody judgmental once-over, and then shrugged. "Well, maybe not the reason _you_ are. But the reason everybody else is here."

I looked around us. I didn't really know why everyone else was here, and I was honestly just so surprised she wasn't attacking us to have much brain space left to think of much else.

She looked disgusted by my vacant look. "To dress up."

I didn't like how she was speaking to me, though; not at all. I closed my jaw, composed myself and looked back at her. "Oh, _really_? To dress up?" I said, putting my hands on my hips. "You don't really seem like the sort of person who'd like to put more clothing on. Quite the opposite, actually."

I didn't realise that Doctor Z hadn't been present in the conversation until she put a hand on both our arms. "Please, you two. no fighting. I had quite enough of that with Jack and Gabe."

Was she really—After everything Widowmaker had—? "'No fighting'?" I asked her. " _No fighting_? You're really asking me not to fight with her after everything she's done, after everyone's she's hurt, and everything she's—"

"Yes," she said, deceptively gently. "I am."

Why was she so calm? "But, _why_?"

"Please, Lena. Both of you."

 _Both of us_?! I wasn't the one assassinating pacifists left and right, and stealing everything that wasn't nailed down! I looked across at Widowmaker, stunned, and she raised her eyebrows at me in challenge and gave me the smuggest, and most indulgent smirk. I was nearly _sick._

I turned sharply back to Doctor Z. I was so confused. "What is going _on_?" I asked her, gripping her shoulders and forgetting to be careful of her dress. "She suddenly shows up here, only a few weeks after she's killed Mondatta, _the_ Mondatta, the one person who everyone was saying could stop the war and bring peace, acting like butter wouldn't melt in her bloody mouth and she's the _whole bloody reason_ why all the peace treaties and all the ceasefire agreements are falling apart at the seams right under our…"

Neither of them were responding much to what I was saying.

I kept talking for a bit, I think, but the words sort of died on my lips. I didn't understand why they were just watching me.

That's when it hit me: Dr Ziegler was relaxed. She _wasn't_ afraid of Widowmaker, and she wasn't at all surprised Widowmaker was here, either. Both of them were facing me, together, like I was the third wheel. And—had Widowmaker just asked her to _dance_ before—?

I-I couldn't—

No.

I didn't understand. "What is this?" I asked Dr Ziegler quietly, and then swallowed. "Are—are you secretly working for Talon or something, or—?"

She shook her head, and Widowmaker laughed once. "Despite my best attempts, no."

"Then what…"

A silence stretch between the three of us.

Eventually, Widowmaker made a 'hmph' noise again, and turned on one full hip. "You know, for someone so quick, you can be so _terribly_ slow," she told me dryly, and then said to the Doc, "I'm going to go and get us some champagne."

I watched her leave, moving gracefully across the floor like she owned the place.

Dr Zielger was watching her, too. She took a breath, and then looked back at me. "She's my friend, Lena."

I twisted to face her, horrified by that statement. " _Widowmaker_ is your friend?"

She looked guarded again. "Amélie is."

I looked back at the blue-tinged woman by the champagne fountain, and hardly recognised her. "That's not Amélie, Dr Ziegler."

"It is." Calm. Compassionate. Like she was explaining a difficult concept to a five year old, I hated it.

She was wrong, anyway. "It's _not_ , Doctor Z," I corrected her. "It's not! Maybe you haven't seen what Widowmaker can do, but I have, I've seen it all, and it's things that gentle Amélie—sweet, gentle Amélie—would never do, not in a million, billion years. I saw her shot Mondatta in the face. I saw it. It was her."

"She's been through a lot. She's suffering."

"So was I, but I didn't—" I was going to say 'shoot people', except I _had_ shot people, many people, and I didn't know how to explain on the spot that they were the _right_ people, the ones who needed to be shot. "She's _awful_ ," was what I managed to say.

She wasn't listening to me. "You would be, too, in her place." She spent a moment taking a long, deep breath, and then letting it out. "Look, I'm sorry. This is all my fault, Lena. I—well, she doesn't come to every ball, so I thought it was pointless to bother you if she wasn't going to come to this one—and I thought even if she _did_ come she probably wouldn't confront me in front of you…"

But she had. My jaw tightened. "I told you. She's _awful_."

Dr Ziegler sighed at length. "She's got a lot to work through, I'll admit. But she was _tortured,_ you understand. For weeks. She needs our mercy and our forgiveness to recover from that." She put one warm, gloved hand on my arm, silent for a moment. I just had no idea what to say. I was lost. I'd come here with the most beautiful woman in the world—on top of the world with her, myself!—I could hardly manage to piece together what had happened. I just wanted to go home with her, now. To pretend it hadn't ended.

After a little while, she spoke. "Maybe you could stay here anyway, Lena?" My heart lifted for a moment. "There's lots of lovely women here, after all. I thought it might be a really nice place for you to meet someone special."

O-Oh…

While I was struggling to pull the sword out of my heart, she added. "You do look lovely in that uniform. Someone will definitely fall for that."

Maybe; I clenched my jaw, looking away.

She squeezed my arm once, gave me such a compassionate look, said, "I'm sorry, Lena, I'm so sorry," and then floated across the perfect parquetry and amongst the other beautifully dressed women over to where _Widowmaker_ was holding a glass of champagne for her.

I couldn't hear what they were saying; but I didn't need to. Widowmaker handed her the glass, and then touched the lace on Dr Ziegler's delicate choker, brushed the hair from her shoulders and away from the dress, and then stood back, admiring it. I could see how impressed she was, and how genuine the compliment she delivered would have been as a result… and there it was: a deep, rich, delighted blush on Dr Ziegler's cheeks. A real blush, for no one else except Widowmaker. I watched Dr Ziegler absolutely light up as Widowmaker appreciated the little details of her dress, and then watched as Dr Ziegler's gloved fingertips explored the intricacies of Widowmaker's dress; touching every loop of lace, every red stone embroidered into black satin like she was at worship. It was so delicate. So private. It wouldn't have been more intimate if they'd even started making love right there in the ballroom.

I watched mutely as they finished their champagne and walked out to the dance floor, and watched as they danced gracefully together in the radiant half-light of the crystal chandeliers, a hand on each other's waist and the other fanning out their long, beautiful skirts behind them. The Doc's eyes weren't veiled like when she'd been dancing with me—they were _alive_. Alive, and fixed on the _monster_ dancing with her.

I just…. I couldn't reconcile it. Not at all. Dr Ziegler was such a beautiful, lovely, wonderful person. Light shone out of her. She made everyone around her feel good and good about themselves—and I thought that I wasn't half bad at making her smile, too. So _why_ would she choose someone cruel and nasty like Widowmaker when—well, when she had other options? _Why_?

I just…

I didn't understand. I didn't understand, but I felt—well, I felt like something inside me had just scrunched up in a tiny, ugly little ball. I'd actually thought someone beautiful and graceful and amazing like Dr Ziegler needed _my_ help. _My_ help?! I mean, look at me—I looked down my front at my stuffy old uniform, and then back up at the ethereal beauty of their dresses as they swept across the floor.

I felt plain. I just felt so plain. So plain, so stupid, and so naïve… _just_ like Widowmaker had always said.

Just as I was _shaking_ with it, shaking with that horrible, petty feeling building inside me, Widowmaker caught sight of me over Dr Ziegler's shoulder and she _smirked_. There was triumph in it. There was indulgent, cruel triumph in it in the way she looked at me.

And—lord, I—

I felt _sick_. I felt sick. I'd just wanted to make Dr Zeigler happy—really truly, all I'd ever wanted to do was make her happy—and the thought that she'd chosen to dance with this… this _monster_ over dancing with me, was—

My stomach clenched with it, my chest ached with it: the awfulness of the choice that she'd made. The awfulness of someone freely choosing _that_ over _me_.

I couldn't bear it, so I didn't. I _didn't_ bear it. I blinked clean out of the open doors into the cold night air, and then just caught a taxi home, nursing that rotting, twisting, curling feeling in my stomach like a spreading bruise.

In the end, _I_ was the one who locked myself away alone that night, and the two of them went home together, took their beautiful dresses off together, and made love together in the moonlight while I cried myself to sleep.


	45. Respect Your Leader - Mercy x 4xF - SFW

Mercy is sick of her team bickering, and decides to assume control of them. Crack humour, with implied F/F/F/F/F.

Speed prompt, written in 120 minutes.

* * *

I'd hardly collected all my medical supplies and disembarked from the ship, and already I could hear that my 'team' were at it. _Not this again_ , I thought, sighing at length. I'd just about had it with all their senseless bickering.

"Fancy seeing _you_ here," Tracer didn't sound at all happy about discovering who else had been assigned to our mission. "I thought spiders preferred dark and damp environments. You know, like _toilets_."

Widowmaker—who was actually keeping mostly to herself today, I thought—looked equally as unimpressed to be grouped up with Tracer. "I wouldn't expect you to know anything about 'damp'," she fired right back, "You haven't been near anything wet in your entire life."

A third voice—Pharah, _thankfully,_ she was mostly far less petty than those two—interrupted their little tiff. "Can we please focus?" she asked. "Save the childish bickering for _after_ we've completed the objective."

Widowmaker did _not_ take well to that wording. "Sorry, 'childish'?" Her voice was dry as a bone. "Me, or the person who spent the entire last objective throwing a tantrum and refusing to use comms because her mother politely suggested she should wait for the rest of the team before drawing fire?"

Pharah stiffened. "She wasn't there, she didn't know what I was planning. Her advice was just distracting me, that's all."

Widow was unmoved. "The highlight was when your voice cracked as you said, 'You never trust me with _anything_ , Mother,' before switching off your headset."

The vein in Pharah's forehead popped out. "It was a strictly business decision. I was trying to concentrate."

Widowmaker scoffed. "Will you make a _business decision_ to throw a tantrum and switch off comms if someone tells you to stop running a one man team on _this_ mission, too?" she asked. "Perhaps it's too much of an adjustment to go back to taking orders when you were giving them for so long, Amari? Is that it?"

Pharah looked dangerously close to just flat out decking Widowmaker. "Well, it's a moot point, _Lacroix,_ because I'm leading this mission, so everyone will be following my orders. Including you."

"Well, you're not going to get very far if you don't listen to the advice of your sniper this time," Widowmaker told her, taking a casual, inflammatory step towards Pharah. "Just saying."

" _Actually,"_ that was Tracer's primmest voice, and she took the opportunity to blink in between Widowmaker and Pharah and jab Widowmaker's chest with the point of a finger, " _I'm_ the scout, and we've run loads of successful missions before without a sniper. We don't need one, and if you're going to be such a _twat_ about everything, you can just stay on the damn ship."

Widowmaker acted as if Tracer hadn't even spoken, her eyes still on Pharah. "Are you going to switch of comms in this mission, too, Amari?" She paused theatrically and feigned concern. "Wait a minute, should I not call you that? 'Amari'? I don't want people confused that I'm talking about the _actual_ Captain Amari. You know, the Amari who won all the medals and saved so many lives…" Another pause. "Not the Amari who is essentially just an over-militarised mall security guard who _actually_ thinks she can run a one-man strike team and bursts into tears when mummy says she can't."

Beside me on the bridge, Zarya made a gruff noise. "Some team," she commented in her charming accent, and then looked down at me, jerking her thumb behind us with her eyes twinkling. "You know, it's not too late to just get back on the ship and go home."

I laughed. I'd forgotten how much I liked her. "I don't really think that's an option," I admitted, "although it's tempting, given this lot." I looked down by the hanger door; the three of them were about a moment away from tearing each other to pieces.

Oh, dear. Well, I couldn't just let them murder each other before the mission had even started, could I? My Caduceus staff was nearly at 0%. _Someone_ needed to take charge of this lot. I sighed; I supposed that would have to be me. Why was it always me?

"I'm going to need your help," I told Zarya over my shoulder as I left the bridge to approach my 'team'.

She chuckled, hoisting her absolutely enormous gun over one shoulder like it weighed nothing at all. "Understood."

I don't know what the rest of them were bickering about, but whatever it was, I called cheerfully over it, "Alright, that's quite enough of that!"

They all paused for a second, looked at each other, and then all at once began to try and tell _me_ what was wrong with each other. I wasn't going to have it, so I held up a hand. "No, I don't care," I told them as pleasantly as I could. "I don't care who did what. We're a team, we're going to act like one. And, if none of the actual soldiers is able to get along for five seconds and actually lead the mission, _I'm_ going to." I looked back over my shoulder. "That's alright with you, Zarya, isn't it?"

Leaning casually on her upright gun, Zarya chuckled and saluted me.

That's what I liked to see! "Excellent," I told her with a smile, and then turned back to the others.

Widowmaker looked even more unimpressed than she had when she and Tracer were at it. "What make _you_ think you have the skill or the knowledge to—"

I talked over her. "That's quite enough."

Looking _disgusted_ , tried again anyway. "What does a _doctor_ think she's doing by—"

I wasn't going to argue with her. I put one gloved finger firmly over those bee-stung lips of hers. "I said that's enough, Amélie," I told her, and left my hand there for just a moment. "We're a team. I'm leading the team. You won't talk over me."

Pharah, proving that despite the best training she sometimes _could_ be baited to be a little immature, said dryly beside me, "What's the matter, Widowmaker? Having trouble taking orders from someone?"

Privately, I actually found Pharah turning Widowmaker's words back on her to be rather well-placed and I'd probably laugh about it with her later; now, though, I couldn't. Everyone on the team needed to get the same treatment from me; favouritism wouldn't do at all. "You too, Pharah," I said pleasantly. "Keep your mouth shut unless it's to do with the mission."

I don't think she'd expected that—we were friends, after all. She looked at me with genuine surprise for a moment but then, understanding my methods, stood to attention, saluted, and looked straight past me with military-level discipline.

Huh. I always did like it when she was like this. Especially when she was wearing uniform; very appealing.

Tracer, looking between Widowmaker and Pharah, made a decision to copy Pharah and stood to attention too, her chest all puffed out. It was perhaps the most adorable thing I'd ever seen, _and_ it was nice to be able to give orders to someone who'd immediately take them. "Good girl," I told her. She beamed.

Widowmaker practically _gagged_ at it. "'Good girl'?" she repeated, sounding ill. " _'Good girl?'_ What are you running her, _Doctor_ , is it a strike team, or is a pre-school for wayward—?"

Beside me, there was a heavy _thump_. We all jumped. Zarya had let her weapon fall to the ground and was approaching Widowmaker with long, heavy strides and a glum expression. "That's enough from you," she told Widowmaker. "I don't know about France, but in Russia, we don't play games. We _respect_ our leader." She only stopped when she was toe-to-toe with Widowmaker, looming over her and peering down at her. "So, show her some respect."

Well, this was certainly an interesting turn of events. I decided not to interfere.

Widowmaker looked straight back up at her. "Or what? You'll 'crush me like big Siberian bear'?" she asked, rather rudely imitating Zarya's accent.

Zarya wasn't baited at all. "Or I'll do whatever Mercy tells me to do to you," she said calmly. "Because _she's_ the leader. Now," she said, putting two huge hands on either one of Widowmaker's shoulders. " _Kneel_. Show some respect to your leader."

Widowmaker's arrogant veneer faded somewhat. "W-What?"

Beside them, Pharah and Tracer glanced at each other, wide-eyed and tittering, and then smothered their amusement and hopped back to attention when I gave them a chastising look.

Zarya's booming voice made us all jump. "I said _kneel_!" she said, and then forced Widowmaker to her knees.

Honestly, I think Widowmaker was too surprised to retaliate, because I can't imagine she'd ordinarily allow herself to be treated like that. It was so ridiculously over the top—were they really like that in Russia?

"That's better," Zarya said far more moderately once Widowmaker was actually on her knees, "and if you get up, I will be the one to tell Talon that _you_ are why we failed our mission, because you were unable to swallow your pride and engage in proper, efficient teamwork."

With that, she gave Widowmaker one more look of warning, and then turned to walk past me to where she'd left her gun.

"Are this really how you do it in Russia?" I whispered to her on the way past.

She chuckled; a low and rich sound. "No," she said simply, and then flashed me a white-teethed grin. "At least, not on the battlefield."

My eyebrows shot up; oh, my. I wasn't able to stop myself from laughing at little.

It didn't take long for Widowmaker's transparent surprise to morph into deep displeasure. "This is _ridiculous_ ," she hissed. "Is humiliating your teammates on the Overwatch charter? No wonder it was decommissioned. Talon _never_ forces its agents to submit to tactics like this."

Tracer was busy scoffing behind her. "They wouldn't need to force you, I bet you happily kneel in front of loads of random people all the time," she said, and then began to giggle at her own joke.

She stopped immediately when we all looked at her, though, panicking. "Oh, um, 'silence'. Got it, Doc! Sorry!" she said, and then immediately knelt, too.

Since _they_ were both kneeling, and since this was all far more interesting that I'd thought it would be, I looked up at the last soldier standing, so to speak: Pharah.

She looked down at me, confused. There were beads of sweat on her forehead.

I cleared my throat, and then smiled pointedly at her.

She finally realised what I meant. "Oh! Oh." She knelt, too.

And, just like that, I had three previously very troublesome teammates silent, compliant, and kneeling in front of me.

Well, this had all turned out rather nicely! I almost wanted to take a seat here, sip tea, and admire my handiwork. Perhaps I should try my hand at leading more often?

There weren't any seats, however, so I just walked a slow, leisurely circle around the three of them, appreciating the peaceful (alright, extremely tense) silence. It was nice to be able to hear myself think for once, and—if I'll admit it—it was rather nice having such attractive teammates all doing exactly as I told them, even if it would be very unprofessional of me to say it aloud.

Unfortunately for me and my private enjoyment, Athena started a count-down, which meant my fun was over.

"Well, let's get ready then, shall we?" I asked, motioning for them to stand.

"Oh, I'm allowed to stand up now?" Widowmaker asked me, her voice dripping with sarcasm, but she dropped the snark immediately when Zarya casually slammed the base of her weapon on the ground next to her and made her jump.

I smiled at Zarya. "After you," I offered her as the door opened.

"No, no," she said easily, insisting I exit before her, "after _you,_ Leader."

I laughed. Wasn't she obliging! "Very well!" I told her, accepting her invitation. "I suppose if I draw fire, that just helps things for you, doesn't it?"

With that, I led possibly the most subdued and compliant team I'd ever been in out on the battlefield and to a rather easy victory, _and_ —not that I'd say so aloud!—I took some rather pleasant mental images back to my quarters that night.


	46. Aftermath - Tracer (POV) x Mercy - SFW

Speed prompt, written in 92 minutes.

* * *

Never in a million years would have I imagined this, never. Maybe I should have, though?

When I was a little girl lying in my bed at night and listening to drunk bloody chavs slagging off Omnics to each other on the street below, I always used to imagine hopping out of bed, sliding my window up, and just having it out with them right there and then. What did those wankers have against Omnics, anyhow? I never understood it. All of the Omnics I'd ever met were dead nice—I mean, I suppose you come across the odd nasty one, but that's the same as all people, isn't it? A few of them are nasty and do awful things?

It's just… well, I never imagined _how_ nasty the awful things could be.

Seeing Kings Row—my home, everything I used to know—in rubble makes me sadder than I thought it would. Even though I know I helped saved loads of people, it still makes me sad. It makes me even sadder when those right pricks who bloody provoked it all come up to me all like, "Oi, thanks for killing all those evil robots. Scrap the lot of them, I say, we never should have tried to make peace with a bunch of war machines in the first place, they were a bunch of ticking time bombs."

Overwatch has prepped me for how to respond to this stuff, "We protect _everyone_ , including Omnic people," but sometimes, I just can't say it. I want to shout at them, like _really_ shout, until my throat is raw. 'It's your fault!' I want to say. 'All of you, every time you attack someone omnic or hurt them or belittle them, it makes Null Sector stronger, can't you see that? This is your fault, too!'. I can't though. Of course I can't. I just have to smile.

I can't smile, though, not today. Not surrounded by _this_ , this devastation. King's Row has been absolutely levelled. I can hardly even tell where my flat used to be.

I shouldn't even be here, looking at it; I was supposed to be back at the evac ship an hour ago, but I can't help it. I can't help it. This was where I grew up.

This was my _home_.

I take a few steps out into the clearing where Torbjorn's drop ship landed just hours ago, picking carefully around the rubble. I think the council flats used to be here. There are smashed plates amongst the debris—bone china tea cups, beautiful ones, ones someone's grandmother would have loved as her only treasured possession. Old children's toys. Artillery shells, car parts and dirty, torn clothes. And blood. So much blood, everywhere. There are probably bodies in there, too. People who never had anything, and now are now becoming dust themselves. It's hard to see, honestly. I can barely look. I just can't believe what Null Sector's done.

At least it's quiet now. I can't hear canons, screaming and suppressive fire anymore. Somewhere—maybe there are still trees in the parks?—there are birds. The only sound I can hear is my feet, kicking aside rubble and finding somewhere to step. It's so odd. A green grocer used to sing here, I think. Kids used to steal their parents' house vacs and race them; _I_ used to do that—I can still remember everyone's laughter. I can remember how much we fought over how unfair it was when someone got a newer, faster model. Now, there's just silence.

Until I hear another pair of footsteps.

"Lena, are you alright?" She's got such a lovely voice, Dr Ziegler. It's gentle and warm, just like she is. Of course she'd come looking for me.

God, no. "Of course!" I lie, forcing my brightest smile. I don't want Overwatch to think I'm some wuss who can't handle war. I can handle it, I can. It's just really hard when it's your own backyard.

Her smile is gentle and not forced at all. When those big blue eyes of hers settle on me, I know it: she can see right bloody though me. To how tight my chest is, and to how much I just want to cry. I swallow.

She spends a moment watching me, and then puts one soft, warm hand on my shoulder and looks around us. "It must be very hard for you, Lena," she says quietly. "But I want you to know something: I've seen this many times. People come back, and they rebuild. Communities pull together and build futures for their children out of what was nothing but shells and mortar. I promise it. You'll recognise Kings Row again, one day. You'll come home and everyone will be back."

God, she's making me want to cry. There are probably bodies under my feet. "Not everyone."

Somehow, she knows what to say. Or she guesses. "No, not everyone," she says gently.  
"But enough people, Lena. Enough."

I should say something cheerful—I really, really don't want someone like Dr Ziegler to think I can't handle war. I'm the soldier, after all, _she's_ the doctor. She's supposed to be the gentle one. But all I can think of is that bone china, smashed and trodden on. And how nobody in the word cares about it or knows _to_ care about it, even though it was once loved and cherished. I can't speak. If I speak, I'll cry, I just know it.

Somehow, Dr Ziegler knows it, too. Her eyes soften. "Oh, Lena... Come here." Before I'm ever aware what's happening, her arms are around me, and she's hugging me against her. She's stronger than I expected for someone who looks so delicate, but with her cheek against my forehead, I can feel her skin is just as soft as I expected it to be. She squeezes tears out of me, like that. I try to cry quietly, but it's hard, and it's hard not to let her feel me take each haggard breath—not that she'd probably mind much.

It's just that I don't want someone as beautiful as she is to think of me as a little kid. Because I'm not. I haven't been since the slipstream accident.

I really, _really_ don't want her to think of me as a child she needs to comfort, even if it's nice to be held by her. "I'm alright," I managed eventually. "Thank you, I'm alright. I'll be okay." I try to push away. My oh-so-stoic act is completely ruined by the fact my goggles are all fogged up from my tears.

"I know you will be," she says and then notices my goggles and chuckles—it's such a pleasant sound, it makes me _actually_ smile.

I push them up over my forehead and wipe my eyes. "Can we… pretend that didn't just happen, please?"

When I look back at her, she's smiling at me. God, she's so _warm_. So very warm—personality, wise, I mean. Everything about her is warm. "Why would we do that?" she asks honestly. "Don't be ashamed of feeling this way, Lena—it's actually refreshing to have someone who clearly still feels something. The others can be…" Her beautiful nose wrinkles a little. "Well, less caring, I suppose. They forget that in war, real people lose their lives. The death count isn't just a number. Each one represents a person with a life and with a family who loved them and _misses_ them. Each one of them is an empty bed tonight."

I swallow. "You're going to make me cry again."

She laughs. "Sorry," she says, and then gives me another brief hug. I enjoy it more than I should, for what we're talking about. I _love_ that she's opening up to me, I love it. It makes all of this feel a little better. "If it helps, Lena, I'll probably make myself cry, too."

We laugh briefly together, and then both take long, measured breaths. She speaks first. "Thank you for watching my back out there, today. I couldn't have done it without you." She's speaking in a quiet voice and looking right at me.

My stomach flutters. I love the thought of her being grateful to me. I hope I get to save her _loads_ more. "And we'd all be dead without you, Dr Ziegler."

She smiles. "Angela. It's 'Angela' when we're not on mission."

Oh, god. I—Wow. You know when you suddenly realise you _really_ like someone? Like, really like? _Yeah_. "Angela, then."

She drapes an arm around my shoulders. I think it's just collegial, even if every single bit of me hopes beyond hope that it's more. She squeezes my shoulder for a moment. "Let's get back, shall we? 'Lena was looking for survivors' won't be a proper alibi if they catch us both out here crying over fallen buildings!" She gives me that beautiful laugh again while I downright bloody _gaze_ at her, practically with star eyes. I not even sure I hope she doesn't notice.

If she does, she doesn't say anything. She just bids me to follow her, and together, we pick through the rubble back to the evac ship.


	47. The Short Straw - Mercy (POV) - SFW

Prompted on Tumblr: "Prompt: Speedy Recovery and Raptoramaker Double-Date. "

I took liberties with it, though, and it's not exactly that. Speed prompt, written in 50 minutes.

* * *

There was really no easy way to say it: Fareeha was dating Amélie. We all knew about it... well, almost all of us. They'd never formally announced it (which had initially made me think they were just sleeping together), but to anyone who'd been paying attention their mutual interest was downright obvious—the sideways glances. The little smiles. Sparring just a little too playfully in the practice arena. It was so clear. Well, if you weren't blinded by your... complicated feelings towards either one of the women, that was.

Lena was—well, how should I say it?—not very fond of Amélie. And by 'not fond of', I mean the last time they crossed paths, Fareeha had to physically restrain Lena from taking a swing at Amélie in the car park over what had apparently been a 'smug bloody look and I'm going to murder her'.

Not that I'd been tempted to attack anyone over having it confirmed that Fareeha was dating Amélie, myself, but to be perfectly honest, I'd struggled with it a little. I had nothing against Amélie per se—she'd been through so much—but she'd also shot at me many, many times while she'd been with Talon, and I'd gone for years believing she'd killed Ana as well as Gérard.

So when Fareeha knocked on my door, loitered nervously around my doorway and then, over a beer (or, to be quite honest, over several beers) blurted out she was actually dating Amélie, I…

…well, it was quite a shock, you understand. A very tough pill to swallow; Amélie was the very last person in the world I'd have imagined someone like Fareeha with. But apparently as part of Amélie's rehabilitation from believing she was 'Widowmaker', she'd been spending a lot of time reconciling with Ana and then one thing had led to another…

And so here we found ourselves: with Fareeha dating Amélie, and Lena completely unaware of it.

"You should be the one to tell her," Fareeha whispered to me in the Overwatch cafeteria, placing her tray beside mine and cleanly hurdling the bench to sit beside me. "She has a thing for you."

Pfft. "Oh, she does not," I scoffed, neatly buttering my bread. "She's like that to everyone."

Fareeha gave me a look.

I winced. Well. "Alright, but it's nothing more than a passing crush." The type I used to have on you in that security uniform, I mentally added, never to say aloud. "And even if she does have a little crush, it's certainly nothing that would stop her from murdering Amélie simply because I was the one who told her."

Fareeha didn't look convinced. "Well, let's look at it this way: I hardly know her, and Amélie can't even be in the same room with her without her frothing at the mouth. That just leaves you."

I stopped buttering for a moment. She had a point. "Hmm."

Instead of splitting her roll, Fareeha put the entire thing in her mouth and took a big bite of it, chewing as she watched me. After she'd swallowed, she jabbed the other half of the roll in the air towards me and said frankly, "I also find it really dishonest, having to sneak around. I don't like it. We should tell her as soon as possible."

"We?" I repeated, giving her a bit of a sideways look.

Fareeha grimaced. "You. And Mum thinks we should do it soon as well."

Does she, now? "Perhaps she can do it herself, then? You know how much Lena looks up to her."

Fareeha laughed once. "With the way Mum breaks news to people?" She imitated her mother's accent. "''Lena, yah soosah, my daughter is sleeping with Amélie and you're not allowed to kill them because I want grandchildren this century, got it?'"

I had to laugh at that. Her imitation was spot on. "Okay, Fareeha, you make a very compelling argument on that one."

Fareeha tossed her hair. "I took debating at school."

"No, you didn't." She'd graduated from a technical college, not an academic one.

She made a face. "Alright, I didn't. But you're still agreeing to tell Lena tonight, aren't you?"

I sighed deeply. "Am I?"

She gave me a smile so bright it almost rivalled one of Lena's. That smile was my downfall. "Fine," I agreed eventually. "But you owe me one for this, Fareeha."

She gave me one of her big, handsome smiles and saluted. "Anything, Angela."

Anything…? I thought, trying to repress the lingering memory of that smile and getting back to my roll. Tonight was going to be… interesting.


	48. Friends with Benefits - Katya x Sombra

Prompted on Tumblr to write some Sombra/Katya - which I SORT OF did. Pre-slash. Speed prompt, written in 122 minutes.

* * *

Katya should have expected that woman would be back very soon. 'Sombra', was it? Whatever her name was, Katya should have known. People like that didn't stay away from people like her for very long.

When she returned, she'd cause another security breach, Katya assumed. Maybe alarms, drama, chaos—that seemed like the sort of situation Sombra liked to manufacture. She clearly had a flair for drama, after all.

What Katya _didn't_ expect was to wander into her office late at night after most of her staff had gone home and find herself suddenly face to face with _—_

 _God! That woman,_ who was sitting poised on Katya's executive table, legs casually crossed, shaking a Chinese Baoding Ball beside her ear and listening to it chime. "Huh," she said, looking at the ball. "Are these really all that relaxing? I always wondered."

Katya's breath caught in her throat. " _You_."

"Yup," Sombra said, pushing herself off the desk and doing a little bow. "Me. Did you miss me? I bet you missed me. I'd miss me, and I bet it gets _pretty_ boring around here…"

Sombra had the look of someone who was allergic to 'boring'. Katya, on the other hand, had come to welcome 'boring'. It meant peace and stability; those short periods of time where Katya could get a full night's rest and not worry about Russia or her daughter's future. She didn't say as much: as if she'd share something so private with _this woman_. "What do you want?"

Sombra put the Chinese Baoding Ball back in its nest, theatrically shrugging. "Oh, I don't know? World peace? A different hair colour? Actually, come to think of it, amiga, I'm pretty hungry right now, you know it's a long flight here…" When Katya looked less than impressed, Sombra dropped the theatrics. "Actually, I did some research on my brand new friend and found some very, very interesting reading material on her, so I thought I'd come pay her a visit. You know, see how she is."

That seemed unlikely. "If you're here to threaten me again, don't bother. Just tell me what you want."

Sombra scoffed. "Geez, you're not even going to tell me how you are? You're not even going to ask how _I_ am?" She was grinning. "A good friend would ask me how I am."

That grin _grated_ Katya. These power games grated her. She didn't know if part of the whole blackmail arrangement was that she was expected to play Sombra's little games as well—and if it was, she didn't know how she was going to manage it. She did the best she could. "I think you know how I am," she said clearly. "I think you know how far back your agents sent our mech program. We'll be months behind our deployment date. And every day we don't deploy, we lose another farm. Another town. More people to the Omnic extremists."

Sombra looked unmoved. "Hey, but at least the board will keep you appointed as CEO, right? 'Katya Volskaya, Saviour of Russia'? Can't be Saviour of Russia if Russia doesn't need to be saved, and no one needs mechs from Volskaya Industries if there isn't a war. You won't even need to bribe anyone."

Did she really just— Well, she was right, but—"How _dare_ you. Russia is my _home_."

Sombra gave her a tired look. "Spare me the rhetoric, I've seen all your emails. Talon and me, we did you a _big_ favour." She took a step towards Katya. "And I'm about to do you another big favour, too."

Katya wasn't sure she wanted to know, so she didn't ask.

"I know there's a guy who's been breathing down your neck about the program, right? Isn't he related to the president somehow? Second cousin? Niece's friend? I forget the details." Katya had a feeling Sombra hadn't forgotten the details at all: she meant the president's _son_. "Anyway, word on the street is that he's after a corporate position here. Chairman, right? Someone who'd have a _lot_ of power over you. That's what people are saying."

Katya didn't know where this was going, so she opted to listen. The president's son and her did _not_ see eye-to-eye, he was far more militant and Katya was and she knew _he_ was interested in being 'Saviour of Russia' so he could use that reputation to get elected himself, one day. Frankly, it worried her.

"Anyway," Sombra continued. "Let's just say I found out about a little thing he had going on at university. Did you know he was dating an Omnic girl for three whole years? The horror, right? I can't believe he managed keep it hidden for so long." She didn't sound very horrified.

Katya wasn't, either. Well, perhaps a little horrified about this woman's apparent lack of scruples. But— _Russia_ would be horrified, and that was Sombra's point. These photos could destroy him just like the ones Sombra had of her could destroy her. "Is that true?"

Sombra gave her a sideways grin and a big nod, and showed her some photos in the air. "All true, my friend, all true, and all here." She took a memory stick out of her pocket, slipped it into Katya's breast pocket, and patted the pocket once. "I'm sure they'll come in handy if you need to use them one day."

Katya… wasn't so sure how to feel. On one hand, she was disgusted that Sombra thought that she, Katya, would put someone else in the same position she herself had been put in. On the other hand… if it was a choice between using the photos in defence of her country, or not using them and letting a megalomaniacal, egotistical maniac take centre stage….

Well, it was a tough choice. She almost wished she'd never have to make it. But she knew what she'd decide.

And… on realising that… suddenly, Sombra's decision to blackmail her became a lot less evil and a lot more… well, she didn't know what Sombra wanted, did she? Maybe _she_ had people she was protecting? Still, there were unanswered questions—the whole thing made her incredibly uneasy. "Why are you doing this?"

Sombra looked blankly at her. "Doing that?"

"Helping me. You could have just used these photos yourself to do exactly the same thing to him as you are to me."

That, Sombra laughed at. "You know, I did think of that!" she said candidly. "But you're way cuter than he is. And you're definitely less crazy than he is, so…" She shrugged. "Easy choice. And besides, Katya—I can call you that, right? Katya?—we're friends."

This whole 'friends' thing made her uneasy, too. More games. "My _friends_ don't usually blackmail me."

"Not openly," Sombra told her easily. She took another step towards her. "But, see, I'm not like your other friends, Katya. I'm _way_ better."

Katya was wholly unconvinced, and she couldn't shake that deep uneasiness. "My _real_ friends would never—"

"— _Pfft._ How many people do you think are the Saviour of Russia's friend because they like her as a person, amiga? Be serious. They're all about what they can get out of you: believe me, I've read all their messages. The only difference with me is that I'm upfront about it: I like you because I can get information out of you," she said easily, without any hesitation at all. Then, she paused, thinking. "Also, you didn't flinch when I held a gun at you before, either, and that's sort of cool, if you ask—"

"Do you have a point?"

"Yeesh," Sombra said. "I was only trying to say the whole gun-thing was totally badass, that's all. Anyway, my point from before is that, amiga, you've seen what I can do. Now imagine how useful I could be if _I_ was your friend, too. That's a pretty… shall we say, _attractive_ proposition, right?"

There was something… about that choice of words. There was also something about how close she was standing, come to think of it. She assumed it was a cultural thing, but—

Sombra was looking directly at her. "I have another attractive proposition for you, too, Katya." She let the words hang in the air for a moment. "As I was saying before, I came across some very, very interesting information about your time in the army. You had a friend, there, I think? Eva, wasn't it? I think you were close to her. Very close."

Katya's blood ran cold. She knew _exactly_ what Sombra was referring to—even if she'd almost forgotten about it herself.

"It's sad you lost touch with this Eva, I guess? But I understand why you don't talk to her anymore, Katya. After all, Russia doesn't look kindly on those sort of… friendships, does it?"

Katya felt sick. This woman was _dangerous._ "What do you want, Sombra?"

Sombra shrugged. She was always so casual. "Nothing in particular, amiga, I was just going to say that you and I have a lot more in common than you may—"

More in common than—was she trying to say that she was also a—

Katya sharply turned her head to look directly into Sombra's eyes. Is _that_ what this visit was about? _More_ blackmail?! "Are you going to blackmail me to sleep with you as well? Is _that_ it?"

Sombra actually looked genuinely surprised, and perhaps even a little insulted. "Are you for real?" she said, as if expecting further blackmail from her was ludicrous. "Honestly, what sort of person do you take me for? I was just hoping that now we're being honest with each other, that we could get to know each other a little better, maybe bond over the things we share, but, yeah, anyway…." she said, sliding off the table. "Perhaps it's best if I just leave you with the photos of the president's son for now."

Not trusting Sombra for a single solitary second, Katya's eyes followed her as she calmly and deliberately walked all the way to the door. She stood there for a moment, pausing to give Katya a deep, wicked grin over her shoulder. "Besides, amiga," she said, "I won't have to _blackmail_ you to sleep with me. Eventually, you'll be _asking_ for it."

Still giving Katya the wicked grin, she mouthed 'adiós', fanned her fingers in a wave, and then instead of using the door, she vanished into thin air.


	49. If You Scratch My Back - Mercy x Sombra

Dr Angela Ziegler finds an unexpected ally in Sombra. Actually, she finds an unexpected LOT of things in Sombra.

* * *

It wasn't so much a sound that woke Angela. It was a feeling, she decided, an uneasiness. The type of feeling you get when you're driving to work and wondering if you really did lock your front door.

She opened her eyes and stared up at the familiar ceiling in her Gibraltar HQ residence (it was still so odd to be back here again), wondering what it meant. _Perhaps I'm subconsciously aware I forgot to do something important_? she thought, rolling over to look at her clock: _3:42am_. Hmm.

There wasn't anything she could have left on, though. And when she tried to methodically go through her evening minute-by-minute, routine-by-routine, she couldn't pinpoint anything she'd forgotten. Her new nanite formula was refrigerated—she remembered doing that. Ana's new bullets (secretly altered so they damaged _unintended_ targets less) were ready to be batched in the cupboard. Even her new formula for the 'resus pack', as she called it, a tiny life support implant with a single dose of a chemical cocktail to automatically resuscitate you if your heart slipped into arrhythmia was safely locked in the fridge, waiting for her to continue trying to convince those difficult new directors in Ethics to let her run live tests. Honestly, she couldn't think of what she mightn't have done.

The uneasiness remained, though, and no amount of closing her eyes and reassuring herself everything was fine was helping at all.

Well. Perhaps she should just get up and check the lab? You know, just in case.

Slowly, she pushed aside her blankets and stood into her slippers, pulling a light dressing gown around herself—mostly for modesty because she'd forgotten how warm Gibraltar nights were in the summer. Then, she walked the familiar route to her old (and now new) lab.

It was different at night; without the fluorescent lights, shadows from the moonlight outside the hangar feel in deep, heavy lines across the linoleum floor. It was eerie, and added to her feeling of unease.

At the lab, still half-asleep, she punched her access code automatically, in a smooth sequence she'd done 1000 times, only to have it beep and say ' _LOCKED_ '.

 _That_ woke her up. Locked?!

Huh.

Well, maybe she'd entered the code in wrong? _Yes_ , she decided, that was probably it. She'd never done it wrong before, so maybe this was what happened when she did. She tried again, and this time it displayed ' _OPEN'_.

That didn't reassure her at all; in fact, a cold chill settled on her. If by punching in the correct code before she'd _locked_ it…

She took a slow and steady breath. Maybe _this_ was what she was subconsciously feeling uneasy about? That she'd left the lab unlocked? But—no, that couldn't be it. She remembered locking the door after dinner because she'd been carrying her coffee mug with her and had found juggling it and closing the door difficult.

Which meant…

Oh, heavens, had someone opened it?! Had _Winston_ needed something, perhaps? Surely it couldn't be anyone other than him, surely…

Against her better judgement—she really should have checked to make sure it _was_ Winston—she pushed the door carefully open and walked straight into—

—the barrel of a pulse gun, pointing straight at her forehead.

She froze.

She was face-to-face with someone who had… purple eyes, clothes more brightly coloured than even Lena's always were, and who was also glowing faintly with her cybernetic augmentations; so many that she almost looked part-computer. Well, at least that explained how she'd hacked the security terminal…

Despite the fact she was staging a hold-up, the intruder was uncharacteristically relaxed. "Well, if it isn't the doctor herself," she said casually. She had an accent. "Pleased to meet you, Dr Ziegler. Or do you prefer 'Angela'?"

 _I think I prefer not having a gun against my forehead_ , Angela thought, looking up at it.

The woman noticed. "Oh, yeah, that," she said, and removed it, shrugging. "Can't be too careful, you know. Everyone wears concealed guns these days, and if we had a gunfight in here it would wreck all your valuable medicine, right?"

Valuable? Was she planning on stealing something and selling it?

"But anyways," the woman continued, looking directly at Angela's thin nightgown. "I can see you're not concealing much in that little thing, so I guess your medicine is safe." As Angela's mouth opened and her cheeks went a little pink, the woman extended her other hand. "Sombra," she said simply, taking Angela's hand and shaking it when Angela didn't move. "Big fan. Really." She turned towards the lab. "So, this is where the magic happens, hey?" Without being invited to—invitations clearly weren't important to her—she wandered over to a counter where a solution was distilling and leant in for a closer look. "Huh. It's creepy how it bubbles like that."

Angela only came to her senses after the nightgown comment as Sombra reached out to touch one of the test tubes. It was the DST-1 formula, and she'd spent ages perfecting it! "Stop, that's—!" she began automatically, and then realised she was shouting at a woman with a gun; a gun that, seconds ago, had been pointed at her.

Fortunately, Sombra looking amused rather than angry. "That's what?" she prompted, grinning. "Poisonous? Explosive? Some sort of love potion that's going to make everyone around me immediately fall for me? Because let me tell you, _doctora_ , I don't need anything like that." She winked.

Angela stared.

Was this woman trying to…? No. No, of course not. It couldn't be anything like that. She was probably just one of those cocky people who liked to flirt with people to unsettle them. Well, Angela wasn't going to be riled that easily. Not even by a cocky woman with a gun. "I'm afraid it's nothing like that," she replied evenly, trying to sound calmer than she felt. "It's just that it needs to settle within a fixed period of time or the sediment dissolves into the solution."

Sombra looked disappointed. "Oh," she said, and stood up from it, moving along the counter to examine the centrifuge and some of the equipment behind it. She seemed to be searching for something.

Angela watched her, dazed. It was all so bizarre. Honestly, she felt like she might be in some sort of odd nightmare. She still wasn't 100% certain this woman didn't mean to hurt her, but her curiosity got the better of her, anyway. "Sombra," she began gently so as not to make her angry, "I'm sorry, but—why did you break into my lab?"

Sombra didn't look bothered by the question at all. "Well, the door was locked, how else was I going to get in?"

Angela's eyebrow twitched. "Perhaps by _asking_ me?" At Sombra's somewhat sheepish shrug, she added, "What could you possibly want to steal, anyway? I make all my formulas public."

"Can't a girl just want to say hello to her favourite doctor?"

Angela wasn't buying it. "No, because your 'favourite doctor' wasn't in the lab."

Sombra made a face. "Okay, that's true," she conceded, glancing at Angela over her shoulder. That troubling smirk returned. "She wasn't in the lab, she was in bed. And I mean, sure, I _could_ have come to say hello to her in her bedroom in the middle of the night…" She turned to face Angela. "Are you saying you'd prefer I'd done that, Dr Ziegler?"

Again, Angela felt her cheeks heat up. "I'm saying that I'd prefer you'd asked me, and during the daytime!"

Sombra watched her for a little to long. "Fine," she said, eventually. "Next time I want to break into your lab, I'll ask you first."

Angela felt like she aged about five years in one second. _This woman_. "So, what is it you want, then?"

Sombra sighed. "So serious…" she said about Angela, but then the smirk faded. "Rumour has it you're working on a top secret project."

Angela immediately knew what she was talking about. Suddenly, the woman's intrusion made sense. "So that's what you're doing here," she realised. "You're planning to steal the resus pack."

Sombra nodded. There was zero trace of any remorse.

It knocked the breath out of Angela. How could someone be so casual about robbery? "Well, go on, then," Angela told her a little bitterly, figuring there was little she could do to stop Sombra. "It's in the refrigerator. Just be aware that I haven't tested it yet—I can't be held responsible for what it does to you if it malfunctions."

She looked unfazed. "Doesn't it only do something if my heart stops?"

Well, that was a bit of an oversimplification, but, "Yes."

"Then," Sombra said, shrugging, "what's the worst it could do? I'll already be dead."

Angela couldn't help but cringe. Again, that was a huge oversimplication. People weren't alive or dead, it wasn't an on-off switch. It was a gradient between every cell in your body being functional and alive and every cell in your body being dysfunctional or dead, and she _still_ wasn't sure exactly what had happened to Gabriel when he'd—

"Dr Ziegler?" Angela snapped back to attention at Sombra's prompt. "Look, my intel says that you've already finished it. And knowing your reputation, that means it will work perfectly."

Hah. "Your intel is quite far off the mark on this one," she said perhaps a little more dryly than intended. "Ethics just knocked back live testing because of their concerns. They'd like me to do animal tests, first."

Sombra snorted. "Why do you care what some board of crusty old doctors thinks?"

Angela didn't, actually. She'd certainly... _bypassed_ their approval before on more than one occasion. But that was when she was in Overwatch and money for medical technology essentially rained from the sky. She couldn't say that to this woman, though. "Because I'll never get anyone to fund my project if it's illegal."

Again, Sombra looked unmoved. "How much money do you need?" It sounded like a genuine question.

Was she offering to…?

For second—for just a second—Angela held her breath. Could this stranger maybe help fund—?

 _No_ , she told herself, squashing that idea flat. No. This stranger was clearly a criminal, and the very last thing Angela needed was her medicine being connected to organised crime. "It doesn't matter. I need ethics approval."

"And animal tests are the only way to get it?"

"Yes."

"Well, a human is an animal, right?"

Angela gave her an odd look. "I suppose, but Ethics would never let me install the pack into a participant who—"

—suddenly, in a fraction of a second, something whizzed through the air and there was a gun pressed against her again, this time at her throat. It was as if she'd blinked and Sombra was just _there_.

Sombra had a dark, dark smile. "You can tell Ethics that someone literally held a gun to you and told you to install the pack in them," she said. "You don't need approval to follow the instructions of an armed robber, do you?"

Angela swallowed, the movement of her throat making the gun bob. "No." Oddly, she wasn't particularly worried the woman would hurt her anymore.

Sombra chuckled once, and stepped back. "Okay then," she said, and extended her hand to shake. "Do we have a deal? You install the resus pack into me, I'll give you access to the data from it each time it gets used."

 _Each time_?! Angela really wanted to ask more about this woman's job—but she also didn't want to know, since the woman was _clearly_ a criminal—so instead, she just considered the proposal.

She wasn't actually sure if it was a proper choice; the woman had a gun, after all. Angela _was_ being held up. The more she thought about it, the more she wondered why that didn't bother her. It didn't bother her, though. She _was_ looking for a way to test the device, and this _was_ an excellent opportunity to trial it. Should anything go wrong, she reasoned, it wasn't as if this woman wasn't 100% aware of what she was in for… and 100% a criminal. And since the resus pack wasn't patented yet; it wouldn't be traced back to her.

Somewhat tentatively, Angela found herself reaching for Sombra's hand and accepting it. "Alright, I agree."

She was still coming to terms with the implication of what she'd shaken on, when Sombra, looking very pleased with herself, shrugged off her jacket, letting it pool at her feet. "Let's get started then," she said, and then locked eyes with Angela as she reached for the zipper on her bodysuit. "You can put it in me right now."

As the bodysuit fell away from Sombra's middle, Angela was slightly horrified at herself for needing to tear her eyes away from the woman as they dipped immediately to the woman's brightly coloured bra. Turning abruptly, she switched on the lights and went to retrieve the resus pack from the refrigerator, both angry at herself for noticing that bra, and slightly angry at the woman for so obviously choosing lingerie that was so eye-catching. They shouldn't be doing this.

In any other circumstance, if there was a hint of a dynamic like this with a patient, she might have gone to get a nurse to 'assist with the procedure'. Maybe she'd even have excused herself and then passed the patient to another doctor. There weren't any other doctors here, though, and she _was_ technically being robbed, wasn't she? Even if this woman didn't seem to have any intention of hurting her. It was such an odd situation. It felt surreal.

When she returned with the unit, Sombra had sat helpfully on one of the chairs, neck forward to expose the console anchored at her T1 vertebra, a fluorescent pink bra-strap dividing the brown skin on her bare back.

While Angela was washing up, putting on some gloves and quite successfully ignoring that pink strap and bare skin, Sombra was tapping out an idly tune on the bench with her long nails on the counter-top while she waited.

When Angela glanced up at them—they were claw like in some ways?—Sombra grinned at her. It was one of _those_ grins. "Don't worry about how long they are," she told Angela, and then made sure Angela saw her completely retract them. Locking eyes with Angela, she _winked_.

Angela glanced quickly away, pausing for a moment as she stared down at the small console imbedded at the base of Sombra's neck. She took a deep, slow breath. They could _not_ get into this for a myriad of reasons—including the fact this woman was a criminal who'd broken into her lab with the express intent of _stealing_ her technology!—but more specifically now because she was about to perform a medical procedure on her. "Stop it. I mean that."

Angela could hear the smile in Sombra's voice. "Stop what?"

She wasn't playing that game. Sombra knew what she meant. "It's highly unprofessional."

"So why are you telling _me_ to stop?" Sombra asked innocently. "You're the professional."

Angela did stop—she stopped being about to install the resus pack, dropping her hands to her sides. "Would you like me to do this or not?"

Sombra chuckled. "Okay, okay!" she said in defeat, resting her head on her crossed arms on the counter. "I get it. I'll stop."

Angela waited for a moment to make sure she meant it, and then got to work injecting some local anaesthetic and probing around the base of the console to look for a free socket. She was just marking the point on Sombra's skin and checking there was enough room for the resus pack when Sombra exhaled audibly. She clearly wanted Angela to remark on that so she could explain why she'd done it—Angela didn't. She just kept her eyes on her scalpel.

Sombra spoke anyway. "You know, I never understood that. The 'don't sleep with your patients' thing. If you're both adults, I don't see where's the harm."

Oh, heavens. "Perhaps you could Google it," she said neutrally in an 'that's all I'm going to say' tone.

Sombra ignored her. "I mean, it would be different if I was the student and you were the teacher," she said, and her voice was getting that smile in it again. She paused. "Have you ever been a teacher, Angela? I bet _all_ the students had a crush on you. I know I would have."

Angela closed her eyes for a moment. "Stop talking, please. I need to concentrate."

Sombra chuckled. "Well, I'm sorry I'm breaking your concentration…"

Being very, very careful not to cut more of Sombra than she needed to just because the woman was a mixture of infuriating and yes, perhaps slightly charming, Angela made an incision under the base of her console and examined the wiring and the socket.

Since Sombra was clearly going to speak again, Angela decided to speak over her. "If you must know," she said, "the patient-doctor boundary is to do with trust and an imbalance of power. A patient gives a doctor access to their body, trusting the doctor will view it strictly professionally. Furthermore, a patient's life is literally in a doctor's hands." Angela looked at the console imbedded in Sombra back, open in front of her. "For example, I could literally switch you off right at this very moment. It may kill you. Because of that, I couldn't be sure that any advance I would make, you wouldn't just accept because you were scared of what I might do to you if you say no."

"So, it's because you could kill me if I say no?"

All this oversimplifying. "That's part of it."

No sooner had she said that, she felt Sombra take an arm from under her cheek on the counter, heard the click of something being unlocked, and felt the cold barrel of Sombra's pulse gun under her chin again. "But what if I could kill you, too?"

Surprised, Angela paused for a moment—just with surprise, though, as she wasn't at all convinced this woman meant to hurt her anymore. She still didn't know what to make of it. "Are you… ordering me to do something?"

"No." Sombra let the gun drop from Angela's neck and there was a pronounce click as she adhered it back against her belt. "I'm just saying that the way I see it, we're pretty even right now."

Rather than argue, Angela just considered that comment while she was implanting the resus pack and all its tiny components. After they'd fit into place, she enabled the device and closed the tiny wound in Sombra's upper back with four or five stitches.

While she was swabbing it, she observed at least a dozen other healed openings—fanning out from Sombra's console like the rays of a sun. She must have so many implants… Angela couldn't think of what would necessitate _that_ many augmentations. She wanted to ask—honestly, in different circumstances she would love to have sat Sombra down and asked her all about the integrated technology, what components were medical and what components were omnic hybrids… It was fascinating, all this new technology. She found her fingertips tracing some of the healed incisions, wondering what was underneath.

It was only when she caught Sombra grinning knowingly at her over her shoulder than quickly withdrew her hand, dressed the wound, and washed up.

Sombra dressed very, very slowly—probably hoping Angela would turn around at some point and get another eyeful of that bra and its contents, but Angela didn't give her the satisfaction. She could see a dull reflection of the woman in the stainless-steel splashback, and only turned around when Sombra had her bodysuit on again.

It was skin-tight, though. Sombra knew it.

Angela tried not to show any reaction. In focusing on doing that, though, she fell back into old consulting habits and found herself saying, "Is that all for today?" as if Sombra was just another patient. She didn't manage to stop herself in time.

Sombra found it extremely amusing. "Well," she said in a very theatrical voice, "Now that you mention it, I _have_ been getting all these aches and pains and stuff everywhere. Maybe you should give me a full-body check-up, Doctor? You know, just to be safe…"

Her cheeks flushing both from her mistake and Sombra's reply to it. Angela sighed at her. "Actually, let me rephrase that:" she said flatly, "that's all for today."

"Just for today?" Sombra retrieved her jacket from the floor and watched Angela as she slipped it back over her shoulders. At Angela's expression, she laughed. She then took a few slow and indulgent steps towards her, observing her pink cheeks and nervous hands. "Admit it, _doctora_ ," she said with a grin. "You're interested in me."

Angela rolled her eyes. "Well, you're certainly _interesting_ ," she told Sombra dryly. "Do you always flirt with people after you've broken into their workplace to steal from them?"

Again, Sombra was unmoved by the accusation. "No," she said simply, and then gave Angela that half-smile. "But then again, most people I steal from are not as pretty or as smart as you are."

Angela _groaned_ at that, closing her eyes for a moment and shaking her head. "You are absolutely unbelievable."

Sombra seemed to take that as a compliment. "I know, it's what makes me so interesting. And what makes you interested, right?"

"You _held me at gunpoint_ and you honestly think I would consider anything further happening between us?"

Sombra scoffed. "You weren't scared," she said. "If you were, you wouldn't be rolling your eyes at me right now."

She… had a point. _But still_. "I still can't imagine how you could possible think this could go anywhere."

Sombra took another step towards Angela, giving her a slow and rather thoughtful once-over. "Well, don't worry, _doctora,_ I have enough imagination for both of us." She finished her once-over by grinning at Angela, face to face. She was slightly shorter. "Anyway," she said after letting a silence stretch between them. "We both got something we wanted tonight. I don't see why we both shouldn't get something else we want tomorrow night."

It had been a very long time since anyone had propositioned Angela so openly, and there was… something to be said for this woman, in truth. She was very pretty. And as much as Angela was loath to admit it, definitely rather charming. But, then again, she'd _broken into her lab_ …

"Come on," Sombra prompted her, that half smile on her perfect lips. "I know you want to, _doctora_. I'll even let you bring your scalpel, since I know you're _dying_ to find out what's inside me." They were standing so close that for a second, Angela actually thought Sombra might try to kiss her. She didn't. "And after you've poked around inside me, maybe I can return the favour." Sombra's eyes dipped to Angela's lips.

It was—actually, sort of intoxicating.

Angela had forgotten what it this felt like, and it wasn't that difficult for her to admit that—yes, Sombra was right. She _was_ interested. Against her better judgment, she was interested. Heavens, though, what on earth was she getting herself into? Whatever happened between the two of them had better be good enough for the risk to be worth it!

There was defeat in Angela's sigh. "Well. I hope you'll at least take me to dinner first."

A look of devilish satisfaction broke across Sombra's face. "Hah, I _knew_ it!" she said triumphantly, and then stepped back, not breaking eye-contact with Angela., "I'll find somewhere so good that you'll want to eat there _every_ night," she said with conviction, her lips curling deliberately around key words. "See you tomorrow, _doctora_."

Then, just like Lena used to do on occasion, she quite literally _vanished_.

Angela was left there alone in her lab in the middle of the night, surrounded by small surgical implements that needed to be re-sterilised.

After a moment of trying to gather her senses—had all of that really happened?—she sterilised everything, gave her lab one last cursory check, and then locked it and made the walk back to her room.

Stepping out of her slippers, she sat on the edge of her bed for a moment and stared down her body. The room was a little milder now that the door had been open; the sheets were cool from her absence and as a result, her nipples were pushing against the thin fabric of her nightgown. She found herself wondering if they'd been that way in front of Sombra—and if they had, if it even mattered. After all, she was essentially going to offer that woman a lot more.

 _You agreed to that, Angela_ , she thought, shaking her head at herself. Was she _really_ going to sleep with someone who broke into her lab to steal her resus pack, despite the deal they'd made?

Honestly, this was all complete crazy. Absolutely, completely crazy. Sombra hadn't even left any details about how they were going to meet tomorrow night—should she just expect her to _break in_ or something?

While she was lying in bed, staring wide-eyed at her ceiling and wondering if perhaps she'd genuinely gone mad, her phone flashed. Curious, she turned over to read the message, and found that a contact called 'Sombra' had saved itself on her phone.

" _Hey, there, doctora,"_ the message read. " _Wait out the back of the hangar tomorrow night at 8 and wear something really nice. There's a hotel near the restaurant so no one needs to drink and drive_." Angela scrolled down. _"And, Angela? If you've got a cute little doctor's uniform or a little nurses' uniform that you could bring along with that scalpel, I'll definitely show you how much I appreciate it_ ;)"

Angela read that last part twice, holding her breath. Tomorrow night was going to be an experience.


	50. Perfect Timing - Widowmaker x Tracer

Since Tracer is overly enthusiastic about everything, she'd probably be an overly enthusiastic lover, as well.

Speed prompt, written in 29 minutes.

* * *

It had been a peaceful afternoon. Widowmaker would perhaps have said 'perfect', but nothing was perfect—and, in Widowmaker's experience, reflecting on how perfect things were was generally an invitation for the universe to ruin them.

So, it wasn't a _perfect_ afternoon, exactly. But, the warm winter sun was coming it at just the right angle to fall on her in her leather armchair, her favourite blend of coffee was in a mug on the table beside her, and, most importantly, she had her whole apartment in Paris to herself. It was finally quiet enough for her to focus on practicing some of those mindfulness exercises Angela had been teaching her to deal with the flashbacks. The timing was perfect.

She closed her eyes, counted out a long, slow breath and began to focus on her hands. How they didn't feel numb with cold anymore, how nice it was to be able to feel the tips of her fingers, and how smooth her leggings were against the backs of—

" _Brilliant, you're HOME_!"

Jumping in her chair, Widowmaker's eyes flung open just in time to catch a flash of vibrant colours as the door _flew_ open, someone _flew_ through it towards her, and the back of her armchair smacked against the wall with a dull thump as someone landed in her lap.

 _Lena_. What 'perfect' timing. Just perfect.

She opened her mouth to say something biting to that effect, but found Lena's mouth planted firmly against herself. While she was reeling from that, Lena pulled back, saying, "Oh my god, I'm _so_ up for it right now! It's been _murder_ waiting for my bloody mission to finish so I could visit you again!" before she went back to kissing her.

Lena was still wearing all of her armour, but that fact didn't seem to bother her at all. Rather than shedding any of it, her hands went straight for the hem of Widowmaker's jumper, pulling it up.

Coming to her senses, Widowmaker managed to push her back and pull her jumper down. "Do you _mind_?" she said, even though the sun on her stomach had felt quite nice. "This may be Montmartre, but you're not paying by the minute."

Rather than be offended, Lena just laughed. "Hah, hah! Nice one!" she said, and then leant in for another kiss.

Widowmaker put a hand over her mouth, stopping her. "Since you specialise in missing the point, let me spell it out to you: I'm busy."

Lena's eyes travelled from Widowmaker to the table—it had a coffee and nothing else on it. She looked sceptical as she pulled Widow's hand off her mouth. "Doesn't look much like it," she said, and then grinned. "Besides," she said, toying with hem of Widow's jumper, "you said it, too: you were looking forward to me staying over again…"

Pfft. "That's because you're cheaper to run than an electric blanket," Widow said dryly, adding, "although, in its defence, the electric blanket _does_ talk a lot less." …But it also had a lot less muscular thighs to wrap around her, Widow thought, her eyes dipping to the legs splayed across hers. She'd forgotten how good Lena looked in her work pants.

Lena noticed the glance. "Can't hide that look from me," she told Widowmaker, and then won the wrestling match and managed to steal another kiss. "Come on. Whatever you're busy with, it's time to take a break from it."

When Lena was like this, there was nothing to do but give in; she was a force of nature. Grumbling just for good measure, she let Lena pull her jumper over her head so the late afternoon sun could warm her skin again. Then, she sat back and let Lena—still bubbling with enthusiasm—find a number of other ways to warm her.

 _Well_ , she mused, focusing on the feeling of Lena's lips travelling down her torso, Angela hadn't said she needed to be _alone_ when she practiced those breathing and mindfulness exercises.


End file.
